THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


MANY  JUNES 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  HOUSE  OP  MERKILEE3 

RICHARD  BALDOCK 

EXTON  MANOR 

THB  SQUIRE  S  DAUGHTER 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  HONOUR  OP  THE  CLINTONS 

THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE 

THE  OLD  ORDER  CHANGETH 

WATERME1DS 

UPSIDONIA 

ABINGTON  ABBEY 

THE  GRAFTONS 

THE  CLINTONS,  AND   OTHERS 

SIR  HARRY 

MANY  JUNES 


MANY  JUNES 


BY 

ARCHIBALD   MARSHALL 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,    MEAD   AND   COMPANY 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920 
BT  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY  NEW    JERSEY 


PR 


Co 
MRS.  ARNOLD   GLOVER 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 

THE.  ADMIRAL   

1 

II. 

FOYLE  MANOR          .... 

14 

III. 

THE  GARDEN  ..... 

32 

IV. 

GEORGE  BLOMFIELD 

44 

V. 

ANNE'S  MARRIAGE  .         . 

61 

VI. 

TROUBLE           

76 

VII. 

SETTLEMENT    ..... 

89 

VIII. 

THE  TOWN      

103 

IX. 

ALONE      ..... 

116 

X. 

WORK       

.      126 

XL 

TEN  YEARS  AFTER  .... 

.      144 

XII. 

LITTLE  ANNE  ..... 

.      156 

XIII. 

THE  CHURTONS        .... 

.      166 

XIV. 

MABILIA   ...... 

.      182 

XV. 

PLANS       ...... 

.      197 

XVI. 

WYSE   HALL    ..... 

.     212 

XVII. 

MARGARET        

.     222 

XVIII. 

THE  DREAM    ..... 

.     238 

XIX. 

THE  AWAKENING    .... 

.     247 

XX. 

MARRIAGE        ..... 

.     259 

XXI. 

POSSESSIONS      ..... 

.     270 

XXII. 

MEMORIES         ..... 

.     290 

XXIII. 

BY  THE  WINDOW     .... 

.      301 

XXIV. 

THE  TIME  AND  THE  PLACE    . 

310 

MANY  JUNES 

CHAPTER   I 

THE    ADMIRAL 

'*  INDEED,  Sophia,  you  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,** 
said  old  Lady  Wilkinson.  "  I  am  aware  that  you 
are  afraid  of  the  Admiral,  and  I  have  always  told  you 
that  you  were  very  foolish  to  be  so.  But  to  fear  a 
person  is  one  thing,  and  to  run  away  from  him  is 
another.  You  will  just  sit  in  your  place  and  drink  your 
tea ;  and  if  I  wish,  for  any  reason,  to  speak  alone  with 
him — which  I  do  not  anticipate — I  will  tell  you,  and 
you  can  then  leave  the  room.  Have  your  tea  in  the 
morning-room,  indeed !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

She  was  a  tiny  fresh-faced  old  lady,  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  the  whitest  of  hair,  and  sat  as  upright  in  her 
easy-chair  as  if  she  had  never  known  the  use  of  a. 
cushion.  Her  daughter,  if  she  had  a  will  of  her  own, 
had  reached  the  age  of  five  and  forty  without  having 
exercised  it  in  opposition  to  the  old  lady's  imperious 
rule,  and,  although  she  looked  unhappy  and  uncom- 
fortable, made  no  effort  to  enforce  it  now. 

"  I  have  reason  to  dislike  a  man  who  has  treated  me 
with  such  brutality  and  discourtesy  as  Horace  has 

1 


2  MANY   JUNES 

done,"  she  said.  "  It  is  simply  that.  It  is  not  true  to 
say  that  I  fear  him,  mother." 

"  It  is  true,  Sophia,"  persisted  the  old  lady,  her 
snowy  curls  shaking1  with  the  vehemence  of  her  nod. 
"And  to  talk  of  brutality  and  discourtesy  is  simply 
ridiculous.  You  are  always  dwelling  upon  that  foolish 
old  grievance.  The  fact  is,  you  always  lorded  it  over 
poor  Emily  before  she  was  married,  and  when  you  went 
to  stay  with  her  as  a  bride  you  tried  to  continue  the 
practice.  Horace  caught  you  at  it  and  turned  you 
out  of  the  house.  And  well  you  deserved  it.  I  do  not 
deny  that  he  is  a  martinet.  Every  man  has  a  right  to 
be,  in  his  own  house.  Your  dear  father  was  the  same, 
and  I  never  complained.  But  that  is  a  different  thing 
from  brutality,  as  you  call  it,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that 
the  Admiral  was  not  brutal.  Your  nature  is  an  over- 
bearing one,  Sophia,  and  for  once  you  got  punished 
for  it." 

Poor  Miss  Wilkinson — meek,  downcast,  and  distressed 
under  this  exordium — displayed  as  little  as  possible  of 
the  overbearing  disposition  laid  to  her  charge.  Nor 
had  she  displayed  it  very  strongly  on  the  occasion  which 
had  led  to  her  being  requested  to  leave  her  brother-in- 
law's  house  some  twenty  years  before.  But  Admiral 
Lelacheur  certainly  was  something  of  a  martinet,  and 
had  taken  advantage  of  a  very  mild  attempt  at  inter- 
ference in  his  domestic  concerns  on  her  part  to  rid  him- 
self of  her  presence,  not  being  quite  able  to  tell  her 
that  he  disliked  her  and  didn't  want  her  in  his  house; 
and  he  had  do«e  so  in  such  a  way  that  she  had  never 


THE   ADMIRAL  3 

again  visited  her  sister  up  to  the  time  of  that  sister's 
death,  a  few  years  later. 

The  two  ladies  were  sitting  in  a  pleasant  old- 
fashioned  upstairs  drawing-room,  whose  bow  windows 
faced  the  sea,  looking  across  the  broad  road  and  the 
parade  on  the  other  side  of  it,  now  fairly  crowded  with 
carriages  and  promenaders — for  it  was  four  o'clock  on 
a  fine  spring  afternoon  and  there  was  plenty  of  interest, 
and  even  some  excitement,  to  be  gained  from  behind 
Lady  Wilkinson's  drawing-room  windows.  The  house 
was  on  the  Marina  at  St.  Leonards-on-Sea,  which  in 
those  days  was  much  occupied  by  well-to-do  people  in 
her  position  in  life,  who  had  each  their  carriage  and 
pair,  and  everything  else  necessary  for  an  existence 
of  extreme  comfort  and  such  mild  degree  of  state  as 
was  agreeable  to  them. 

"  There  goes  Mrs.  Bellamy,"  said  the  old  lady,  whose 
chair  was  placed  so  that  she  could  see  everybody  who 
passed  along  the  road  below.  "  She  has  on  a  new  spring 
bonnet,  and  it  is  not  the  one  she  wore  in  church  last 
Sunday.  At  her  age  two  bonnets  in  one  season  are 
mere  vanity,  although  I  am  aware  that  she  could  afford 
twenty.  Sophia,  I  do  hope  the  Admiral  is  not  coming 
to  say  that  he  is  going  to  take  Anne  away  from  us. 
You  yourself  are  so  quiet,  and  often  so  dismal,  that  it 
is  a  relief  to  have  the  child  laughing  and  singing  every- 
where. I  like  youth  about  me,  and  I  sometimes  think 
that  you  were  never  young." 

"  Why  should  you  think  that  Horace  wants  to  take 
Anne  away  from  us,  mother?  "  asked  Miss  Wilkinson, 


4  MANY   JUNES 

putting  aside  the  personal  application  in  the  old  lady's 
remarks  with  a  slight  shrug  of  her  thin  shoulders. 

"  Why  do  I  think  it  ?  I  wish  you  would  use  what 
brains  the  Almighty  has  given  you,  Sophia.  You  are 
aware,  are  you  not,  that  the  Admiral  has  retired,  and  is 
about  to  settle  down  somewhere?  What  more  natural 
than  that  he  should  wish  to  have  his  children  with 
him?" 

"  He  might  very  well  have  had  them  before,"  replied 
Miss  Wilkinson.  "  When  he  had  a  house  at  Portsmouth 
he  never  asked  for  Anne  to  go  there.  He  has  always 
appeared  to  want  to  keep  Anne  and  Hugh  apart.  I 
am  sure  I  don't  know  why." 

*'  You  don't  know  why?  You  know  very  well  why. 
He  has  ideas  of  his  own  about  the  bringing  up  of 
children.  He  thinks  that  girls  should  be  with  women 
and  boys  with  men.  That  is  why  he  has  left  Anne  to 
us  so  long.  I  do  not  quarrel  with  his  ideas." 

"  I  think  they  are  most  unreasonable,  in  the  case 
of  a  little  boy  like  Hugh,  who  was  only  a  baby  when 
Emily  died.  Of  course  he  had  to  be  with  women,  for 
some  years." 

"  You  are  very  dictatorial,  Sophia.  It  is  a  habit 
that  is  growing  on  you.  And  you  know  very  well  that 
I  should  have  liked  at  that  time  to  have  both  the  chil- 
idren.  But  Horace  wanted  his  only  son.  It  is  only 
natural." 

"  Why  would  he  never  let  him  come  here  for  his 
holidays  when  he  was  at  school  at  Sanborough,  and 
Horace  was  in  Australia?  " 


THE   ADMIRAL  5 

"  Because  he Ah !  there  is  the  Admiral.  Ring 

the  bell  quickly,  Sophia.  We  will  have  tea  up  at 
once.  Bestir  yourself,  child,  bestir  yourself.  Tut! 
you  move  like  a  snail." 

There  was  nothing  snail-like  in  the  motions  of  the 
old  lady  herself,  as  she  moved  about  the  room  like  an 
elderly  but  still  active  bird  and  made  ready  for  the 
visitor,  who  was  of  such  importance  that  it  would 
never  have  done  to  receive  him  quietly  in  her  seat  by 
the  window.  When  he  was  announced  she  was  sitting 
in  another  easy-chair,  by  the  fire,  but  immediately  rose 
from  that  to  greet  him,  and  not  until  the  greeting  was 
made  settled  down  again  on  her  perch. 

Admiral  Lelacheur  was  short  and  red  faced,  with 
square  grizzled  side  whiskers,  sharp  blue  eyes,  and 
closely  cropped  grey  hair.  He  looked  like  a  sailor,  even 
in  his  dark  tweed  clothes,  and  like  a  man  used  to  com- 
mand, though  his  figure  was  not  impressive.  He  received 
the  old  lady's  somewhat  effusive  greeting  with  curt  un- 
smiling ceremony,  and  favoured  Miss  Wilkinson  with 
a  handshake  that  was  finished  almost  before  it  was 
begun.  Then  he  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  said :  "  Hope 
your  lumbago's  better,  my  lady." 

"  Lumbago !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  haven't  had  a  touch 
of  lumbago  for  the  last  four  years.  What  can  you  be 
thinking  of,  Admiral?  " 

"  It's  four  years  since  I  saw  you,"  he  replied ;  "  you'd 
had  a  touch  of  it  then." 

The  old  lady  turned  her  birdlike  head  towards  her 
daughter.  "  What  a  memory !  "  she  said  admiringly. 


6  MANY   JUNES 

"  Well,  Horace,  I  think  that  was  actually  the  last  time 
there  was  anything  the  matter  with  me.  I  hope  when 
you  come  to  my  age  you  will  enjoy  as  good  health  as 
I  do." 

"  I  hope  I  shall,"  said  the  Admiral.  "  Where's 
Anne?" 

"  Anne  will  be  in  directly.  I  should  have  kept  her  at 
home,  but  it  is  the  last  class  of  the  term,  and " 

"  Class !  Term !  You  don't  send  her  to  school,  eh  ?  " 
He  spoke  sharply,  with  a  half-frown  at  her  underneath 
his  bushy  eyebrows.  But  his  frown  had  no  terrors  for 
Lady  Wilkinson. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  should  never  send  her  to  school?  " 
she  said. 

"  Yes,  but " 

"  Then  don't  ask  foolish  questions,  Horace.  She 
goes  to  a  dancing  class." 

"  Oh,  dancing !  What  does  she  want  to  learn  dancing 
for?" 

"  Because  all  young  women  must  learn  to  dance  and 
to  hold  themselves  properly — that  is,  if  there  is  an 
opportunity.  Sophia,  unfortunately,  never  had  one. 
We  were  stationed  at " 

"Well,  never  mind  that,  my  lady,"  broke  in  the 
Admiral.  "  Anne  will  have  to  do  without  dancing 
classes  and  that  sort  of  thing,  now.  I've  bought  a 
house,  and  she's  to  come  and  live  with  me." 

"  I  feared  it,"  said  the  old  lady  with  a  sigh.  "  But 
I  think,  Horace,  you  might  have  broken  it  to  me  a 
little  more  gently.  I  have  grown  very  fond  of  the 


THE   ADMIRAL  7 

child,  and  it  will  be  a  wrench  for  me  to  part  with 
her." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  Admiral.  "  But  I  say  straight 
out  what  I've  got  to  say.  I  don't  believe  in  beating 
about  the  bush." 

**  I  don't  believe  Anne  will  want  to  leave  us,"  said 
Miss  Wilkinson,  stirred  to  gentle  revolt.  "  We  hare 
done  our  best  to  make  her  happy,  and  I  think  we  have 
succeeded." 

The  Admiral  turned  his  fierce  eyebrows  on  her, 
"  What  Anne  wants  or  doesn't  want  is  neither  here 
nor  there,  Miss  Wilkinson,"  he  said.  "  She  is  coming 
tq  live  with  me." 

"  You  needn't  speak  like  that,"  said  the  old  lady 
sharply.  "  You  will  do  as  you  please,  of  course ;  but, 
considering  that  we  have  had  the  entire  charge  of  the 
child  for  fifteen  years,  and  this  is  the  only  home  she 
has  known,  it  would  become  you  to  announce  your 
intentions  rather  more  gently." 

Four  furrows  dug  themselves  in  the  Admiral's  brow 
and  disappeared  again.  "  I'm  not  ungrateful  for  what 
you  have  done,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  And  I'll  see  that 
the  child  isn't  ungrateful  either.  But " 

"  Pooh !  "  interrupted  the  old  lady  again.  "  You 
needn't  trouble  yourself  about  that,  my  man.  Anne 
behaves  towards  her  grandmother  as  she  should  behave. 
She'll  need  no  schooling  from  you.  And  I  don't  want 
gratitude  from  her.  I  want  love,  and  I've  got  it. 
Whether  you  will  get  the  same  or  not  depends  upon 
yourself.  I  hope  you  may." 


8  MANY   JUNES 

*'I  shall  get  obedience,"  said  the  Admiral. 

*'  If  I  didn't  know  that  your  bark  was  worse  than 
your  bite,  Horace,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  you  shouldn't 
take  the  child  at  all,  and  I  tell  you  so  plainly.  Now 
let  me  hear  all  about  it.  Where  are  you  going  to  live 
and  when  will  your  house  be  ready  ?  " 

"  I  have  bought  a  little  property  in  Dorsetshire." 

"  Dorsetshire?  Have  you  any  family  connection 
with  that  county  ?  " 

The  furrows  appeared  again.  "  Family  connection?  " 
he  echoed.  "  You  know  very  well  that  I  have  no  family 
connections  whatever." 

"  I  know  that  you  quarrelled  with  your  only  brother 
thirty  or  forty  years  ago  and  have  never  spoken  to 
him  since,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

The  furrows  came  and  stayed.  "  No  one  (dares  to 
mention  that  man's  name  to  me,"  he  said,  after  a 
pregnant  pause.  "  He  is  no  brother  of  mine." 

"Hoity  toity!"  cried  the  old  lady.  "Who  says 
'  dare '  to  me  ?  Very  well,  then.  You  have  no  family 
connection  with  Dorsetshire.  You  have  probably  chosen 
that  county  because  Sir  Simeon  Lelacheur  lives  in 
Suffolk,  and  Suffolk  and  Dorsetshire  are  a  long  way 
apiart." 

"  I  should  certainly  never  think  of  visiting  Suffolk 
again  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  Quite  so.  I  can  read  you  and  your  obstinate  ways, 
Horace,  like  a  book.  Very  well,  then,  you  have  bought 
a  house  in  Dorsetshire.  On  the  coast,  I  suppose,  so 
as  not  to  cut  yourself  off  from  the  sea?  " 


THE   ADMIRAL  9 

•  "  I've  had  pretty  nearly  fifty  years  of  the  sea,"  said 
the  Admiral.  "  I  wouldn't  live  on  the  coast  if  you  were 
to  give  me  a  place  for  nothing.  I  hate  the  sea.  I 
want  a  quiet  house,  inland,  with  trees  and  birds  and 
flowers,  and  plenty  of  air,  and  no  smoke;  and  I've  got 
it." 

"  Trees  and  birds  and  flowers !  I've  heard  sailors 
talk  like  that  before,  and  I  know  what  happens.  Unless 
you  are  more  foolish  than  I  take  ,you  for  you  won't 
be  many  miles  from  the  sea." 

"  Foyle  is  about  five  miles  from  Lydmouth  Harbour," 
said  the  Admiral,  in  a  tone  of  indifference. 

The  old  lady  nodded  her  head  in  triumph.  "  You  see, 
Sophia,"  she  said.  "  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about. 
I  wish  you  had  been  born  with  half  my  brains.  Well, 
Horace,  tell  us  more  about  your  house.  What  is  its 
name?  " 

"  Foyle  Manor,"  replied  the  Admiral.  "  Oh,  it's 
a  nice  enough  little  place — not  big — pretty  garden,  and 
a  few  fields  and  a  bit  of  shooting.  I'm  having  it  done 
up  now.  I  shall  take  Anne  there  in  a  month — say  the 
first  of  June.  You  can  send  her  up  to  me  in  London, 
can't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  can  send  her  up ;  though,  as  you  have  not 
visited  me  for  four  years,  it  would  not  have  hurt  you  to 
come  down  here  again.  I'm  an  old  woman  now, 
Horace." 

"  You  an  old  woman  !  "  said  the  Admiral.  "  You're 
a  good  deal  younger  than  I  am,  my  lady.  You'll  live 
another  twenty  years." 


10  MANY  JUNES 

"  I  don't  wish  to  live  another  twenty  years,"  said  the 
old  lady,  not  ill  pleased  with  the  compliment.  "  I  don't 
complain,  you'll  observe,  of  your  taking  Anne  from 
me  after  all  these  years,  but  I  feel  it  none  the  less." 

"  I  must  say,"  put  in  Miss  Wilkinson,  "  that  I  think 
it  rather  hard." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Sophia,"  said  the  old  lady 
promptly.  "  The  man  has  a  right  to  have  his  own 
daughter  with  him  if  he  can  give  her  a  home.  And 
her  place  is  with  her  father  as  long  as  he  treats  her 
well,  as  I  hope  he  means  to  do.  And  what  about  Hugh, 
Admiral?  " 

'*  Hugh  will  come  home  too.  I  shall  give  his  tutor 
rooms  in  the  lodge — don't  want  the  fellow  in  the  house." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  that  the  two  children  are  to  be 
together  at  last,  and  that  the  boy  will  have  a  home. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  most  unsatisfactory  pro- 
ceeding, leaving  the  poor  child  practically  homeless, 
as  you  have  done." 

"  Hugh  has  been  very  well  looked  after.  I  wouldn't 
have  him  spoilt  by  petticoats — not  that  it  much  matters 
now.  He's  missed  his  chance  in  life,  and  nothing  will 
put  that  straight." 

"  Missed  his  chance  in  life !  What  a  ridiculous  way 
to  talk  about  a  boy  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  and  just  be- 
cause he  was  refused  for  the  navy." 

The  Admiral's  red  face  grew  purple,  and  to  the  four 
furrows  were  added  a  fifth.  "  Refused  for  the  navy !  " 
he  repeated  angrily.  "  And  whose  fault  was  it  that 
he  was  refused  for  the  navy?  I  tell  you  he  could  have 


THE  ADMIRAL  11 

passed  in  top  of  them  all  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that 
lazy  incompetent  scoundrel  of  a  schoolmaster." 

'*  It  was  not  the  schoolmaster's  fault  that  the  boy 
had  measles  at  the  time  of  the  examination." 

'*  It  was  his  fault ;  or,  if  it  wasn't,  that  was  the  first 
chance.  He  had  another  one,  and  then  what  must  the 
confounded  idiot  do  but  send  him  up  without  taking 
the  trouble  to  see  that  he  was  fit  for  it  ?  " 

*'  It  was  adenoids,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Adenoids !  "  repeated  the  Admiral,  in  a  voice  of 
concentrated  scorn,  as  if  his  quarrel  was  with  the  word 
itself.  "  Just  a  little  twopenny  halfpenny  operation 
and  the  boy  was  as  right  as  anybody.  And  there's  a 
fellow  whose  business  it  is  in  life  to  see  that  the  boys 
entrusted  to  him  have  every  chance — a  fellow  who  has 
pocketed  hundreds  of  pounds  of  my  money  for  that 
thing  alone — and  he  won't  take  the  trouble  to  see  if 
anything  of  that  sort  is  the  matter — leaves  it  to  the 
Medical  Board,  if  you  please,  and  when  they  turn  the 
boy  back  says  he's  sorry.  Sorry  be  damned — begging 
your  pardon,  my  lady,  and  yours,  Miss  Wilkinson.  I'd 
have  had  the  fellow  put  in  prison  for  it  if  I  could.  A 
schoolmaster!  I'd  like  to  drown  the  whole  race  of 
schoolmasters.  And  I  told  him  so  too." 

"  It  certainly  was  very  annoying ;  but  the  navy  is 
not  the  only  career  for  a  boy,  after  all.  Hugh  has 
plenty  of  time  to  prepare  for  some  other  profession. 
There's  the  army." 

"  The  army  !  "  echoed  the  Admiral.  "  No  boy  of 
mine  wastes  his  time  and  money  in  the  army." 


12  MANY   JUNES 

"  Indeed,  it  is  a  very  fine  service.  No  one  says 
anything  against  the  army  in  this  house." 

The  Admiral  grunted.  Questioned  further,  he  said 
that  he  didn't  know  what  he  was  going  to  do  with 
the  boy  yet.  There  was  plenty  of  time.  He  would  go 
on  at  present  with  his  tutor.  He  certainly  wouldn't  go 
to  school.  For  one  thing  he  was  too  old,  and  he,  the 
Admiral,  had  had  enough  of  schoolmasters  to  last  him 
his  lifetime.  Perhaps  he  should  go  to  Cambridge — 
certainly  not  Oxford — the  Admiral  couldn't  bear  Ox- 
ford ;  his  brother  and  his  nephews  had  been  at  Oxford, 
though  he  did  not  give  this  as  the  reason  for  his  dislike 
of  that  university.  After  that  he  would  see.  Hugh 
might  possibly  go  into  the  Church  for  a  year  or  two — • 
if  the  Church  kept  its  Protestant  character,  which 
seemed  unlikely  with  all  these  posturing  mountebanks 
about.  If  he  behaved  himself  he  would  have  Foyle 
after  the  Admiral's  death,  and  enough  money  to  live 
on.  There  was  plenty  of  time  to  see  how  things  turned 
out.  Hugh  was  only  sixteen. 

"  Just  a  year  younger  than  Anne,"  said  Lady  Wilkin- 
son. "  Ah,  there  is  a  ring  at  the  bell.  I  am  sure, 
Admiral,  you  will  say  that  Anne  has  grown." 

Anne  Lelacheur  came  into  the  room  immediately 
afterwards.  She  was  a  tall  slip  of  a  girl,  with  dark 
hair  and  eyes,  more  of  a  child  than  a  woman,  in  spite 
of  her  graceful,  budding  form.  Her  cheeks  and  her 
eyes  were  bright,  and  she  came  forward  to  greet  her 
father  without  a  trace  of  diffidence,  if  with  no  particular 
enthusiasm.  She  had  not  seen  him  for  four  years. 


THE   ADMIRAL  13 

He  allowed  her  to  kiss  him,  and  remarked  that  she  had 
grown,  and  then  told  her,  without  any  further  preamble, 
that  he  was  going  to  take  her  away  from  her  grand- 
mother's house  to  live  with  him  in  the  country,  and  asked 
her  how  she  would  like  it. 

The  girl  sat  on  the  arm  of  the  old  lady's  chair,  and 
put  her  arm  round  her.  "  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  leave 
dear  granny,"  she  said ;  "  but  of  course  if  you  want 
me,  father,  I  will  come." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  the  Admiral,  rising.  "  I 
shall  take  you  down  to  Foyle  with  me  on  the  first 
of  June." 

He  was  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house  within 
two  minutes,  in  spite  of  expostulations  and  expressions 
of  surprise. 

"  I  can  only  hope,"  said  Miss  Wilkinson,  as  Anne 
was  downstairs  helping  him  on  with  his  coat,  "  that 
the  child  will  be  happy  with  such  a  man." 

"  Sophia,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  you  are  a  fool,  and  I 
hope  God  will  forgive  me  for  saying  so." 


CHAPTER   II 

FOYLE    MANOR 

"  I  HOPE  the  Admiral  will  be  satisfied  with  your  improve- 
ment, Hugh,"  said  Mr.  Williams.  "  You  haven't  got  on 
so  well  as  I  should  have  liked  in  some  things.  Mathe- 
matics are  your  weak  point,  and  I  expect  he  will  make 
a  lot  of  Mathematics.  Still,  we've  ground  at  them 
pretty  steadily.  I  can't  honestly  say  it's  my  fault  if 
you  haven't  progressed  as  well  as  you  should  have 
done." 

"  No,  it  isn't  your  fault,"  said  the  boy.  "  Mathe- 
matics aren't  in  my  line." 

"  You're  well  ahead  in  Classics,"  pursued  the  tutor, 
a  little  anxiously.  "  He  can't  complain  there,  if  he 
knows  anything  about  it.  But  sailors  don't  pay  much 
attention  to  Classics.  I  shall  say  to  him :  *  My  dear 
Admiral,  a  fellow  must  follow  his  bent.  Let  him  work 
at  his  Classics  and  I'll  guarantee  that  he  shall  go  to 
the  'Varsity  as  well  equipped  as  most  fellows.  That'll 
be  the  way  to  tackle  him,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  must  have  forgotten  what  my  father 
is  like  if  you  expect  to  tackle  him  in  that  way,"  said  the 
boy  drily. 

"  Oh,  he'll  respect  me  if  I  stand  up  to  him,"  said  Mr. 
Williams.  "  A  tutor  isn't  a  servant,  you  know,  Hugh. 
He's  a  gentleman,  and  of  course  he  treats  other  gentle- 

14 


FOYLE   MANOR  15 

men  as  his  equals.  Anyhow,  I've  taken  great  pains  to 
turn  you  into  a  gentleman.  I  don't  think  he'll  find  much 
to  grumble  at  there." 

,  "  Yes,  you  have  taken  a  lot  of  trouble  about  that," 
said  the  boy  quietly. 

Hugh  Lelacheur  was  a  tall  thin  boy  of  sixteen,  with 
a  solemn  face  and  a  pair  of  fine  eyes,  which  formed 
perhaps  his  only  claim  to  good  looks.  One  would 
not  have  said  that  the  process  towards  which  his  com- 
panion had  bent  his  energies  had  given  him  much 
trouble,  nor,  perhaps,  that  it  was  one  for  which  that 
companion  was  eminently  fitted.  Mr.  Williams  was 
a  big  young  man.  He  wore  a  heavy  moustache  and  the 
beginnings  of  a  pair  of  side  whiskers.  His  hands  were 
moist  and  clumsy,  and  the  stubby  finger  nails  not  quite 
clean.  There  was  a  look  half  bold,  half  diffident  in  his 
eyes;  his  mouth  was  amiable,  if  weak,  and  his  chin, 
which  he  had  shaved  on  the  previous  day,  a  trifle 
heavy. 

The  two  of  them  were  sitting  on  a  bench  on 
Southampton  platform.  They  had  arrived  from  St. 
Malo  a  few  hours  before,  and  were  awaiting  the  train 
by  which  the  Admiral  and  Anne  were  travelling  from 
London,  and  by  which  they  would  go  on  with  them  into 
Dorsetshire.  It  was  a  lovely  summer  afternoon,  the  first 
day  of  June.  The  tide  was  out  and  the  green  mudflats 
behind  them  sent  a  smell  of  seaweed  into  the  clear 
air. 

"I  can't  say  I'm  sorry  to  get  away  from  St.  Lunaire," 
pursued  the  tutor.  "  One  gets  tired  of  a  place  like  that 


16  MANY  JUNES 

in  three  years.  If  it  had  been  Dinard  it  would  have 
been  better  fun.  But,  of  course,  you  would  have  been 
too  young  for  that." 

"  Too  young  for  what?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  Oh,  for  all — for  all  that  goes  on  at  a  place  like 
that.  Of  course  it  is  all  right  for  me — no  harm  in  it, 
in  the  least ;  it  does  you  good  to  see  a  little  bit  of  life, 
but " 

"  What  do  you  call  seeing  life?  What  used  you 
to  do  when  you  went  over  to  Dinard — to  shop  ?  " 

"  I  say,  Hugh,"  said  Mr.  Williams  nervously,  "  you 
won't  say  anything  to  the  Admiral  about  my  going 
over  to  Dinard  occasionally.  I  know  I  did  tell  the  old 
cure  that  I  went  there  to  shop,  and  so  I  did — in  a  way. 
But,  of  course,  I  used  to  have  a  little  bit  of  fun  too. 
Still,  the  Admiral  might  not  understand  it  quite,  if  you 
were  to  say  anything,  and " 

"  I  don't  suppose  my  father  will  want  to  talk  to  me 
much.  He  never  has — at  least,  not  since  I  missed  my 
medical  for  the  navy.  He'll  always  have  it  in  his  mind 
that  I'm  not  in  the  service,  as  he  meant  me  to  be,  and 
he  will  tell  me  so." 

"  It  wasn't  your  fault,  old  chap." 

"  I  know  it  wasn't  my  fault.  But  that  doesn't  seem 
to  make  much  difference.  I'm  a  disappointment,  and 
he  doesn't  hide  it.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  care  for  the 
idea  of  being  shut  up  in  an  out-of-the-way  country  place 
like  Foyle  seems  to  be.  I  think  I  am  sorry  that  we  left 
St.  Lunaire." 

"  You  won't  be  shut  up  alone  with  him,"  said  the 


FOYLE   MANOR  17 

tutor.     "  You'll  have  me,  you  know,  old  chap.     And 
then,  of  course,  there'll  be — er — Anne." 

It  was  rather  impertinent  of  Mr.  Williams  to  call 
his  pupil's  sister  by  her  Christian  name,  for  he  had 
never  seen  her.  But  Mr.  Williams  was  a  sentimental 
young  man,  always  on  the  lookout  for  a  feminine  object 
of  languishment,  and  it  gave  him  a  mild  thrill  to  speak 
of — er — Anne.  Hugh  did  not  notice  the  presumption. 

"  Oh !  Anne,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  care  much  for 
girls.  We'll  let  her  go  her  way,  Mr.  Williams,  and 
we'll  go  ours." 

"  We  must  try  and  make  it  jolly  for  her,"  said  the 
tutor.  "  You've  never  seen  her,  have  you,  Hugh?  " 

"  Not  since  I  can  remember.  It  seems  funny  not  to 
know  your  own  sister.  Still,  I  expect  girls  are  much 
the  same  all  the  world  over.  Hullo,  here's  the  train." 

They  hurried  down  the  platform.  The  Admiral 
stepped  out  of  a  second-class  carriage  as  the  train' 
came  to  a  standstill.  "  Well,  my  boy,"  he  said,  shaking 
hands  with  his  son.  "How  are  you,  Mr.  Williams? 
Where's  your  luggage?  Here,  you  fellow,  come  and 
look  after  this."  He  went  down  the  platform  with  the 
tutor,  and  left  Hugh  standing  before  the  open  door. 
Anne  was  just  inside.  There  was  a  look  of  pleasure, 
almost  of  yearning,  on  her  face,  but  shyness  held  her  and 
she  blushed. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  and  then  laughed. 

Hugh  was  no  less  shy  as  he  stepped  into  the  carriage, 
and  he  was  terribly  afraid  that  Anne  would  want  to 
kiss  him. 


18  MANY   JUNES 

She  did  want  to  kiss  him.  She  had  a  wonderfully 
vivid  recollection  of  herself  as  a  tiny  child  holding  in 
her  arms  a  pink  morsel  of  humanity  that  had  been 
Hugh,  and  her  soul  had  intermittently  hungered  for  her 
brother  ever  since.  And,  strangely  enough,  the  hunger 
was  not  driven  away  by  the  sight  of  this  tall  solemn- 
faced  boy  with  the  great  eyes,  who  seemed  so  desperately 
afraid  of  her.  But  she  did  not  kiss  him.  "  It's  jolly 
being  together  again,"  she  said  lightly.  "  We'll  have 
splendid  times  at  Foyle,  Hugh.  I've  made  father  tell 
me  all  about  it  coming  down." 

Hugh  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  and  stole  a  glance 
at  her  face.  Her  dark  eyes,  very  much  like  his  own  in 
the  way  they  were  set  between  their  long  lashes,  were 
bright,  and  tender  too,  as  she  turned  them  on  him. 
There  was  a  flush  on  her  cheeks.  Her  lips  were  parted, 
and  showed  a  line  of  white  regular  teeth.  It  occurred 
to  Hugh  that  his  sister  was  pretty. 

"  It  will  be  such  fun  exploring,"  she  said.  "  I'll  take 
you  round.  I  know  something  about  it  and  you  know 
nothing.  Hugh,  how  tall  you  are! — nearly  as  tall  as 
I  am." 

Hugh  had  not  yet  said  a  word.  She  left  off  chatter- 
ing, and  he  had  to  find  his  tongue. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Williams  has  got  all  the  luggage?  " 
he  said. 

"  What  is  Mr.  Williams  like?  "  she  asked.  "  Father 
says  I  have  got  to  do  lessons  with  him  for  a  year." 

"  Lessons !  "  repeated  Hugh.  "  That  was  him  with 
me." 


FOYLE   MANOR  19 

"  I  didn't  look  at  him,"  she  said.  "  I  was  looking 
out  for  you.  Oh,  Hugh,  I  am  so  glad  we  are  to  be 
together  again.  I  haven't  seen  you  since  you  were 
a  tiny  little  baby.  Aren't'  you  glad  too?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hugh,  and  then,  clutching  at  his  man- 
hood's independence,  "  I  expect  we  shall  get  on  all  right. 
You'll  have  to  work  hard  if  you  are  to  read  with  Mr. 
Williams  and  me.  He's  pretty  strict."  , 

"Is  he?"  she  said  indifferently.  "Oh,  here's 
father." 

The  Admiral  got  into  the  carriage  and  shut  the  door. 
He  had  said  to  Mr.  Williams :  "  I  expect  you  would 
like  to  smoke,"  and  left  him.  Mr.  Williams  did  not 
want  to  smoke.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Anne, 
standing  up  in  the  carriage,  looking  for  her  brother, 
her  eyes  shining.  He  sat  looking  out  on  to  the  forest 
through  which  the  train  was  passing  without  seeing 
it.  Anne's  eyes  ran  riot  through  his  susceptible  brain. 
He  sighed  deeply,  fingered  his  chin  reflectingly,  and 
wished  it  had  been  his  morning  for  shaving. 

They  came  in  the  afternoon  to  the  little  town  of 
Lydmouth,  lying  snuggled  up  against  the  low  cliff  round 
its  toy  harbour,  facing  the  glittering  summer  sea. 
There  was  a  serviceable  waggonette  with  a  pair  of  stout 
cobs  awaiting  them,  and  a  luggage  cart  in  the  charge 
of  a  bronzed  round-faced  man,  who  touched  his  cap 
to  the  Admiral  and  grinned  widely  at  Anne  and  Hugh. 
He  was  rather  like  a  younger  stumpier  edition  of  their 
father,  with  the  same  grizzled  look  and  the  same  light 
blue  far-seeing  eyes.  Hugh  shook  hands  with  him, 


20  MANY   JUNES 

and  said:  "How  do  you  do,  Dunster?  I  didn't  know 
you  were  going  to  be  here." 

"  No  fear  o'  me  deserting  the  master,"  he  replied. 

Hugh  explained  to  Anne,  in  an  aside,  that  this  was 
their  father's  old  servant,  who  had  sailed  with  him 
for  many  years.  "  He's  a  jolly  good  sort,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  glad  he'll  be  here." 

The  Admiral  had  been  casting  side-looks  at  the  sea 
and  sniffing  the  salt  breezes.  "  Dunster,"  he  said  sud- 
denly, "  we'll  take  the  boat  out." 

"  Old  Jack'll  go  with  you,  sir,"  replied  Dunster 
promptly.  "  I'll  take  the  young  lady  and  gentleman 
home  and  look  after  the  things." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Admiral.  "  Send  the  dogcart 
for  me  at  half-past  six."  And  he  walked  off  down  to 
the  harbour. 

Dunster  had  the  luggage  into  the  cart  in  no  time. 
When  he  had  dismissed  the  two  porters,  whom  he  had 
induced  to  get  through  their  job  with  a  celerity  that 
surprised  no  one  more  than  themselves,  he  said  to  the 
groom  on  the  box  of  the  waggonette :  "  Now  then,  John, 
you  take  this  here  cart,  and  I'll  drive  the  young  master 
and  mistress." 

John  jumped  down  from  his  seat  with  alacrity,  and 
Dunster  took  his  place  and  the  reins.  He  was  not  an 
expert^  whip,  but  the  cobs  behaved  as  if  they  were  as 
pleased  to  act  under  his  direction  as  the  porters  and 
the  groom  had  been.  There  were  a  portmanteau  and 
some  bags  on  the  box-seat  beside  him,  and  Anne  and 
Hugh  and  the  tutor  got  in  behind. 


FOYLE   MANOR  21 

"  Hugh,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  in  a  stage  whisper, 
"  introduce  me." 

"  Oh !  this  is  Mr.  Williams,  Dunster,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Pleased  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  Dunster,  touching  his 
hat,  but  Mr.  Williams  said,  with  a  blush  and  a  weak 
smile.  "  No,  I  mean  your  sister,  Hugh." 

Anne  laughed  and  shook  hands  with  him,  and  Dunster 
relieved  the  subsequent  tension  by  half  turning  round  in 
his  seat  and  saying:  "It's  a  six-mile  drive,  miss,  and 
wonderful  pretty  country.  We  shall  soon  get  there  with 
these  little  fellows." 

"  What  is  Foyle  like?  "  asked  Anne. 

"  Well  there,  you  wait  till  you  see  it,  miss,"  replied 
Dunster.  "  If  you  don't  say  it's  the  snuggest  prettiest 
little  property  you  ever  saw,  I'm  a  Yankee.  Garden  1 
you  never  see  such  a  garden,  and  there's  a  snug  little 
farm,  with  livestock  and  hens  and  turkeys  and  ducks  to 
look  after,  and  a  bit  of  a  lake  among  the  trees,  and  an 
old  punt  on  it  what  I've  made  watertight  and  rigged  up 
all  ready  for  you.  And  there's  a  little  island  on  the 
lake.  We'll  knock  up  a  kind  of  log  hut  there  when  I 
get  a  minute  to  spare,  and  you  can  have  picnics.  Then 
there's  these  little  fellows — the  Admiral  ain't  bought 
a  side  saddle  yet,  but  he'll  do  it,  never  fear.  There's 
downs  all  round  the  house,  and  you  and  Master  Hugh'll 
have  many  a  scamper." 

A  sudden  smile  appeared  on  Hugh's  face.  There  was 
no  telling  what  pleasures  life  could  afford  with  Dunster 
at  the  helm.  Any  one  who  knew  Dunster,  anybody  under 
the  age  of  manhood  or  womanhood,  could  safely  trust 


22  MANY   JUNES 

him  to  afford  constant  and  ever-fresh  thrills.  He  had 
had  experience  of  that  in  his  childhood.  Dunster  never 
seemed  to  have  anything  to  do  but  to  devise  amusement, 
and  yet  Dunster  did  as  much  work  as  two  other  men. 
He  turned  towards  Anne,  who  had  listened  with  spark- 
ling eyes  to  the  description  of  her  new  home. 

"  What  is  the  house  like  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  house  ?  Well,  you  wait  till  you  see  the  house, 

miss,"  replied  Dunster.  "  If  you  don't  say But 

there,  I  done  it  all  myself  while  the  Admiral  was  in 
London,  so  I  won't  blow  my  own  trumpet.  I've  took 
special  pains  with  your  room  and  Master  Hugh's,  miss. 
It  looks  over  the  stableyard — a  bit  of  life  for  you. 
Nobody  won't  bother  you  there,  and  you  can  do  what 
you  like." 

Mr.  Williams  thought  it  was  time  to  assert  himself. 
"  I  suppose  that  is  where  we  shall  do  our  work  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  Dunster,  "  the  Admiral,  he 
thought  you'd  be  more  comfortable  on  your  own  hook, 
if  I  may  say  so,  in  the  lodge.  It's  a  roomy  lodge, 
wonderful  pretty,  with  a  thatch  roof  and  them  lattice 
windows.  The  gardener  and  his  wife  lives  there,  and 
Mrs.  Ivimey,  she  cooks  like  one  o'clock,  and  I'll  come 
in  occasional  and  look  after  your  clothes.  I've  picked 
you  out  two  good  rooms  and  had  'em  done  up  a  treat 
— bookcases  and  everything.  The  Admiral  thought 
you'd  do  your  studying  there  with  Master  Hugh,  and 
him  and  Miss  Anne  could  have  their  room  in  the  house 
to  theirselves,  so  to  speak.  Not  but  that  they  won't  be 


FOYLE   MANOR  23 

asking  you  up  to  a  tea-party  now  and  then.  I'll  be 
bound  they  will." 

This  arrangement,  in  which  the  hand  of  Dunster 
himself  was  at  least  as  apparent  as  that  of  the  Admiral, 
would  have  seemed  an  eminently  satisfactory  one  to 
Mr.  Williams  an  hour  or  two  before.  He  was  to  have 
his  own  quarters,  and  be  his  own  master  outside  of  the 
hours  devoted  to  study.  Now  it  came  as  something  of 
a  disappointment  to  him  to  learn  that  he  would  not,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  share  the  more  intimate  life  of  his 
pupil  and  his  pupil's  sister.  Still,  his  thatched  and 
lattice-windowed  lodge  was  in  the  garden,  and  he  sup- 
posed he  would  not  be  expected  to  keep  out  of  the 
garden,  even  if  he  had  to  await  an  invitation  before 
entering  the  house. 

They  had  driven  over  a  billow  of  the  rolling  downs 
and  were  passing  along  a  road  in  the  valley,  where  great 
trees  had  collected,  growing  in  the  rich  soil  which  they 
could  not  find  on  the  bare  uplands.  They  went  over  an 
old  stone  bridge  and  passed  through  a  pretty  straggling 
village,  with  stone-built  cottages  and  gay  patches  of 
garden.  A  grey  church  tower  dominated  it  from  a 
little  way  up  the  hillside,  flanked  by  its  square  com- 
fortable-looking parsonage.  Anne  exclaimed  at  its 
beauty. 

"  Ah !  you  wait  till  you  see  Foyle,  miss,"  said 
Dunster.  "  This  is  Kennet  Bridge.  It  ain't  nothing 
to  Foyle.  We're  more  than  half  way  now." 

The  two  brisk  little  cobs  covered  the  miles  of  white 
road  at  a  fast  trot,  their  satin-skinned  flanks  creasing 


24  MANY   JUNES 

and  stretching,  their  hoofs  ringing,  now  separately, 
now  in  sharp  unison.  They  trotted  down  a  gentle  slope 
and  into  the  village  of  Foyle.  The  river  watering  the 
pleasant  valley  widened  here  to  a  pebbly  shallow  and 
ran  under  a  three-arched  bridge  of  ancient  masonry. 
The  valley,  too,  was  wider,  and  stretched  away  from 
the  high  down,  underneath  which  nestled  the  village,  in 
meadow  and  deep  woodland.  There  was  a  mill  by  the 
bridge,  and  beyond  that  a  little  group  of  cottages  and 
a  forge ;  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  was  an  old  farm- 
house, with  a  lichened  stone  roof,  standing  behind  a 
wall  in  which  was  a  gate  of  wrought  iron,  giving  a 
glimpse  of  a  paved  garden  court.  The  farm  buildings 
ran  along  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  beyond  them  was 
another  row  of  old  cottages.  The  footpaths  were  raised, 
and  alongside  one  of  them  ran  a  little  tributary  stream 
in  a  stone  gutter.  The  trees  of  Foyle  climbed  high 
into  the  blue  sky.  A  church  spire  peeped  out  from 
among  them,  above  the  village,  but  their  foliage  was  too 
thick  to  allow  anything  but  the  spire  to  be  seen. 
Dunster  jerked  his  whip  in  the  direction  of  the  church. 
"  The  Manor  lies  among  them  trees,"  he  said,  and  they 
turned  round  by  the  mill  and  drove  along  a  shady  road 
by  the  river. 

They  passed  the  church  and  the  rectory  lying  in  its 
shadow,  and  a  hundred  yards  farther  up  the  road  ap- 
peared the  thatched,  rose-and-honeysuckle-covered  lodge 
in  which  Mr.  Williams  was  to  make  his  home.  It 
guarded  a  low  white  gateway,  through  which  Dunster 
turned  his  horses,  not  without  some  danger  to  the 


FOYLE   MANOR  25 

paint  of  the  gatepost.  Here  Mr.  Williams  and  his 
effects  were  dropped,  to  be  received  by  a  buxom  woman 
in  a  print  dress,  who  smiled  copiously  at  each  of  the 
party  in  turn.  Then  they  drove  on  for  a  few  yards 
under  the  trees  and  round  a  corner  to  where  a  green 
cedared  lawn  was  spread  in  the  dappled  sunlight,  rising 
and  dipping  in  gentle  undulations,  down  on  one  side  to 
the  little  tree-bordered  lake,  and  up  to  a  low,  white, 
broad-eaved  house,  whose  windows  were  shining  in  the 
westering  sun.  Anne  and  Hugh  got  down  and  entered 
the  house  by  a  low  porch,  and  Dunster  drove  round  to 
the  stableyard  with  a  promise  to  return  shortly. 

They  found  themselves  in  a  spacious  hall,  with  a 
beamed  roof  and  an  open  fireplace.  Dunster's  work  had 
been  done  so  well  that  there  was  no  appearance  of  new- 
ness. The  furniture  was  old,  and  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  there  since  time  immemorial.  Some  of  it  had,  for 
the  Admiral  had  bought  the  house  with  its  contents. 
But  Dunster  had  rearranged  it  all,  and  added  his 
master's  own  furniture  and  pictures  and  trophies,  and 
the  house  had  become  settled  and  habitable  at  once. 
There  was  a  not  unpleasant  smell  of  new  paint,  and 
soap,  and  upholstery,  all  mixed  together.  Anne  clasped 
her  hands  and  turned  to  her  brother. 

•"  Oh  I  Hugh,  it  will  be  delightful  living  here,"  she 
said.  "  Isn't  it  a  dear  old  place  ?  And  what  fun 
Dunster  is!  He'll  do  all  sorts  of  things  to  help  us  to 
enjoy  ourselves." 

Dunster  joined  them  at  this  point.  He  could  not 
deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  showing  them  everything. 


26  MANY   JUNES 

The  dining-room  was  panelled,  with  a  broad  oak  seat 
under  the  window,  and  another  open  fireplace.  There 
was  a  modernized  drawing-room,  with  French  windows 
opening  on  to  the  lawn.  It  had  that  quiet  faded  air 
with  which  such  country  drawing-rooms,  little  used, 
make  their  appeal  of  restfulness,  and  Dunster  had  kept 
that  air  intact.  They  went  down  two  shallow  oak  steps 
to  the  Admiral's  room,  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  house, 
panelled  in  dark  oak,  with  a  long  lattice  window  opening 
on  to  a  little  retired  rose  garden  surrounded  by  a  yew 
hedge.  It  looked  as  if  its  owner  had  used  it  for  the 
best  part  of  his  lifetime. 

"  I've  asked  them  to  get  you  a  cup  of  tea  in  your 
own  room  upstairs,  miss,"  said  Dunster,  when  they  had 
duly  admired  this  example  of  his  handiwork,  and  they 
went  up  the  broad  oak  staircase,  down  three  steps,  and 
along  another  passage,  and  into  a  big  light  room  full 
of  rather  shabby  furniture,  but  looking  so  comfortable 
and  homelike  that  no  room  could  have  pleased  them 
better.  Tea  was  laid  for  them  on  the  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  "  I'll  just  go  and  see  after  the 
luggage,"  said  Dunster,  "  and  then  I'll  show  you  round 
outside,  miss — that's  to  say  unless  you  and  Master 
Hugh  would  rather  go  round  by  your  two  selves." 

He  held  his  head  on  one  side  inquiringly.  Anne  said : 
"  Oh  no,  we'll  go  with  you.  But  I  must  take  off  my 
jacket  and  hat  and  wash  before  tea.  Where  are  our 
bedrooms?  " 

Dunster  showed  them.  There  was  a  vase  of  flowers 
on  Anne's  dressing-table  and  the  window  curtains  and 


FOYLE   MANOR  27 

bed  furniture  were  fresh  and  dainty.  The  wallpaper 
was  new,  and  had  a  little  pattern  of  rosebuds. 

"  What  a  sweet  room !  "  said  Anne.  "  Who  has 
made  it  all  so  pretty?  " 

Dunster's  broad  face  beamed.  "  I  did,  miss,'*  he 
said.  "  Bless  you,  I  know  what  young  ladies  like. 
Ah,  here's  Martha.  This  is  the  young  person  I've 
got  to  look  after  you,  miss.  Now,  my  girl,  you  bustle 
along  and  get  some  hot  water.  You  ought  to  have 
had  it  all  ready  for  your  young  lady.  But  there,  you'll 
learn  to  think  of  these  things  in  time.  You're  willing, 
and  where  the  heart's  willing  the  feet  and  hands  is 
quick." 

The  apple-cheeked  country  girl  went  scurrying  down 
the  passage,  and  Dunster  shut  the  door  and  conducted 
Hugh,  who  had  been  standing  up  against  the  doorpost, 
to  his  room  next  door.  "  Another  can  of  hot  water, 
please,"  he  called  down  the  passage.  "  I'll  unpack  your 
things  and  get  you  to  rights  while  you're  having  your 
tea,  Master  Hugh,"  he  said.  "  We'll  soon  get  ship- 
shape. Now,  don't  you  think  it's  a  nice  place,  sir? 
Don't  you  think  you  can  live  happy  here  ?  " 

"I  think  it's  the  j oiliest  place  I've  ever  seen,"  said 
Hugh.  "  I'd  no  idea  it  would  be  half  so  jolly." 

"  That's  right,  sir— that's  right.  And  ve'll  all  live 
happy  here  for  many  a  long  day,  I  hope.  I  found  it, 
you  know.  Bless  you,  I  know  what  the  Admiral  wants 
after  all  these  years  better  than  he  knows  it  him- 
self." 

"  Does  father  like  the  place?  " 


28  MANY   JUNES 

"  It's  just  what  he  wants,  quite  away  from  the  sea, 
but  not  too  far  away.  I  got  him  a  boat,  and  he  can 
always  go  over  and  have  a  sail  if  he  wants  to.  He  likes 
his  garden,  and  we'll  keep  him  busy  altering  a  bit  here 
and  a  bit  there  every  year.  And  there'll  be  a  bit  of 
stock  to  fatten,  and  there's  a  bit  of  shooting — enough 
to  give  him  something  to  do  in  the  winter.  And  there's 
books,  and  I've  ordered  him  the  papers  he  likes,  and  we'll 
get  some  of  his  old  shipmates  down  for  him  occasionally. 
And  if  he  likes  to  go  up  to  London  every  now  and  then 
to  his  club,  and  to  see  a  bit  of  life,  why,  we'll  make  it 
easy  for  him.  Oh  yes,  it's  just  the  place  he  wants,  with 
me  to  look  after  him,  and  put  him  in  the  way  of  enjoy- 
ing of  it." 

Dunster  was  busy  unpacking  Hugh's  trunks  and 
putting  his  clothes  away  all  the  while  he  was  talking. 
He  was  the  good-humoured  bustling  genius  of  the  place, 
prepared  to  make  everybody  comfortable  and  happy, 
and  gain  his  own  pleasure  in  doing  so.  "  I'm  glad 
you've  come  here,  Dunster,"  said  Hugh.  "  I  think  we 
shall  have  an  awfully  good  time." 

He  and  Anne  lingered  over  their  tea,  with  the  new- 
laid  eggs,  thick  cream,  and  home-made  bread  of  the 
country.  Everything  about  the  room  and  about  the 
house  was  sweet  and  fresh,  and  the  balmy  air  of  the 
June  evening  stole  through  the  open  casement  and  told 
of  outdoor  delights  yet  to  be  explored. 

Anne  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  poured  out  the 
tea.  "  Do  you  like  sugar,  Hugh  ?  "  she  asked.  "  And 
how  many  lumps  ?  "  Then  she  laughed.  "  Fancy  not 


FOYLE    MANOR  29 

knowing  whether  one's  own  brother  likes  sugar  or  not !  " 
she  said. 

Hugh,  with  his  mouth  stuffed,  laughed  too.  They 
looked  at  each  other  and  laughed  together,  out  of 
pure  happiness. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Anne,  "  that  Dunster  looks 
after  everything  in  the  house?  The  maids  are  just 
country  girls.  Martha  is  the  oldest  of  them,  and  she 
is  only  twenty." 

"Isn't  the  cook  more  than  twenty?"  asked  Hugh. 
"  Father  won't  like  that  much." 

"  Dunster  chose  her  because  he  said  she  had  the 
hand  for  it,  and  what  she  doesn't  know  he  is  teaching 
her.  He  teaches  them  all  their  work,  and  he  is  so 
cheerful  and  friendly  that  they  will  do  anything  for 
him." 

Dunster  knocked  at  the  door  at  that  moment. 

"  Now,  miss,  if  you're  ready,"  he  said.  "  I've  got 
half-an-hour  at  your  service." 

They  went  out  into  the  garden.  It  was  full  of  sur- 
prises. There  was  the  soft  lawn,  shaded  by  the  dark 
horizontal  limbs  of  the  age-old  cedars,  ringed  with 
blossoming  lilacs.  The  lake  was  overhung  with  great 
beeches,  and  on  a  spur  of  jutting  grass  was  a  little 
group  of  silver  birch.  On  the  other  bank  was  an  oak 
copse,  carpeted  with  wild  hyacinths,  and  the  margin 
was  fringed  with  yellow  flags.  There  was  a  yew-enclosed 
rose  garden,  with  flagged  paths  and  a  sundial.  There 
was  another  little  shut-off  garden,  which  had  been  left 
to  grow  wild,  where  the  formal  beds  were  full  of  self- 


30  MANY   JUNES 

sown  foxgloves,  not  yet  in  flower.  The  south  side  of  the 
house  was  trellised,  and  covered  with  magnolia,  myrtle, 
and  banksia  roses.  The  shrubbery  walk,  opening  at 
one  place  into  a  garden  of  primroses,  led  to  the  walled 
kitchen  garden,  in  which  flowers  and  fruit  and  vege- 
tables were  all  growing  together.  Wallflowers  and  snap- 
dragons bloomed  on  the  top  of  the  old  red-brick  wall, 
and  fruit-trees  were  ripening  against  it.  Dunster  was 
very  proud  of  the  fruit  garden,  and  told  them  how 
everything  ought  to  be  done  in  it.  He  was  also  greatly 
interested  in  the  ducks  and  poultry  of  the  little  farm* 
and  beamed  with  anticipatory  pleasure  as  Anne  showed 
by  her  questions  and  comments  that  she  would  like  to 
take  part  in  the  activities  he  had  already  set  on  foot 
there. 

Mr.  Williams  joined  them,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  an  air  of  slight  deprecation,  and  his 
gratification  was  marked  when  they  accompanied  him 
to  the  lodge  and  inspected  his  quarters.  His  manner 
towards  Anne  was  respectful,  marred  only  by  a  tinc- 
ture of  tenderness,  which  Dunster's  sharp  eyes  may  have 
detected,  for  he  cut  short  the  visit  to  the  lodge,  and  was 
contemplative  as  he  convoyed  his  charges  back  to  the 
house. 

Anne  and  Hugh  dined  with  their  father,  and  Dunster, 
in  black  clothes  with  a  white  shirt-front,  waited  on 
them.  The  windows  were  open  to  the  mild  evening 
air,  and  a  sense  of  peace  and  restfulness  lay  over  the 
old  house,  as  the  dusk  crept  on.  Hugh  was  silent, 
digesting  his  experiences,  but  Anne  chattered  gaily, 


FOYLE   MANOR  31 

and  her  father,  in  quiet  good  humour,  responded  to 
her  mood.  "  Yes,  the  place  suits  me  very  well,"  he 
said ;  "  and  if  you  think  it  will  suit  you  too,  young 
lady — well,  then,  we're  all  pleased  together."  The 
evening  passed  without  his  once  reminding  Hugh  that 
if  things  had  turned  out  differently  he  would  now  be 
well  on  the  road  to  advancement  in  the  only  profession 
worth  entering.  He  smoked  a  cigar  on  a  garden  seat 
in  the  rose  garden  after  dinner,  and  did  not  dismiss 
the  girl  and  boy  until  half-past  nine. 

Anne  and  Hugh  went  upstairs  together,  and  passed 
by  an  open  window  in  the  upper  corridor.  The  long 
day  had  nearly  worn  itself  out,  but  they  could  see  the 
lawn  and  the  lake  lying  before  them  in  the  twilight.  ' 

"  Hugh,"  said  Anne,  "  we  are  going  to  be  as  happy 
as  the  day  is  long.  Let  us  get  up  early  tomorrow, 
so  as  not  to  miss  any  of  it." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Hugh. 

She  looked  at  him.  "  Aren't  you  pleased  with  it  all?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  he  replied  slowly.  "  Yes,  I  am ;  very 
pleased." 

"  Well,  good-night,"  she  said,  and  kissed  him.  It 
was  the  sisterly  kiss  that  Hugh  had  so  dreaded  upon 
first  meeting  her,  but  he  received  it  unflinchingly. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE    GAKDEN 

ONE  dewy  morning,  after  they  had  been  at  Foyle  for 
a  week  or  so,  Anne  woke  very  early  and  looked  out  of 
the  window.  White  dew  was  on  the  lawns  and  no  smoke 
arose  from  the  chimneys  of  the  lodge,  which  peeped 
from  among  the  trees  and  bushes.  Dawn  had  stolen  up, 
and  the  full  light  of  the  long  summer  day  had  taken  the 
sleeping  world  unawares.  The  air  was  sweet  and  virgi- 
nal, and  full  of  the  song  of  birds  fluting  among  the 
lilacs.  Here  was  a  new  delight,  this  fresh  unspoilt 
world  which  the  sun  was  just  beginning  to  warm.  It 
was  impossible  to  go  back  to  bed  again  and  sleep  away 
those  glorious  hours  of  early  morning.  Anne  dressed 
and  called  Hugh.  Together  they  stole  through  the 
silent  house  and  out  into  the  clamorous  life  of  the 
garden.  Mr.  Williams  was  in  favour  at  that  moment 
— his  popularity  rose  and  fell — so  they  threw  pebbles 
in  at  his  open  window,  and,  when  a  tangled  apologetic 
head  appeared  under  the  eaves,  announced  that  the 
day's  activities  were  about  to  begin,  and  invited  him  to 
share  them. 

After  that  happy  morning  Anne  promulgated  a 
decree :  bedtime  would  be  immediately  after  dinner  when 
the  Admiral  was  at  home,  and  earlier  still  if  he  were 
away,  and  the  day  would  begin  not  later  than  five 

32 


THE   GARDEN  33 

o'clock  in  the  morning,  as  long  as  the  summer  lasted. 
So  they  tasted  the  fulness  of  the  pleasures  of  the  open 
air,  and  of  all  that  glorious  summer  wasted  scarcely  an 
hour  of  daylight. 

Their  life  was  spent  almost  entirely  in  the  open  air. 
Dunster,  who  seemed  to  get  his  own  way  in  everything, 
although  to  all  appearance  acting  -under  the  sternest 
discipline,  produced  the  promised  side  saddle  for  Anne, 
and  she  and  Hugh  made  long  expeditions  over  the  breezy 
downs,  and  along  the  winding  valley  roads.  They 
busied  themselves  in  the  farmyard,  and  in  the  plots 
which  Dunster  had  assigned  them  in  a  sunny  corner  of 
the  kitchen  garden.  With  his  help,  and  with  financial 
aid  from  the  Admiral — who  was  willing  that  they  should 
enjoy  themselves  in  their  own  way,  so  long  as  they  re- 
frained from  disturbing  the  quietude  of  his  existence — 
they  built  a  log  hut  on  the  island  in  the  lake,  and  played 
childish  games  there.  Their  games  and  their  talk  were 
often  childish,  for  they  were  so  much  alone  together 
that  youth  lingered,  although  their  bodies  grew. 
Hugh's  silence  and  reserve  vanished,  and  his  laugh  was 
heard  about  the  old  house,  and  in  the  secret  places  of 
the  garden,  as  often  as  Anne's. 

The  rector  of  Foyle  was  an  old  man,  with  gentle, 
courteous  manners.  Anne  was  allowed  to  disturb  him 
whenever  she  felt  disposed.  He  would  show  her  books 
in  his  study,  lined  with  shelves  and  opening  by  a  French 
window  into  the  garden;  and  read  her  things  that  he 
had  written — sometimes  about  Roman  remains,  some- 
times about  fly-fishing.  They  would  go  into  the 


3*  MANY   JUNES 

mouldy  gloom  of  the  church,  and  dress  the  altar;  for 
Mrs.  Bouverie,  the  rector's  wife,  was  an  invalid,  and 
sat  in  her  sunny  faded  drawing-room,  thinking  of  the 
time  when  the  decking  of  the  church  and  the  altar  had 
been  her  care.  The  Admiral  went  seldom  to  the  Rectory 
— there  were  doubts  about  old  Mr.  Bouverie's  Protes- 
tantism— but  Anne  and  Hugh  ran  in  and  out  of  the 
house  as  if  it  were  a  second  home. 

They  were  to  be  found,  too,  in  farmhouse  parlours 
or,  better  still,  in  the  great  flagged  kitchens,  with  their 
air  of  cleanliness  and  comfort,  drinking  tea  with  the 
farmers'  wives,  who  made  much  of  them;  and  in  what- 
ever thatched  cottage  a  baby  cooed  and  crowed  there 
was  Anne,  worshipping  it.  They  had  no  lack  of  friends, 
although  of  young  people  of  their  own  class  they  saw 
none.  The  rector  and  his  wife  were  the  only  gentle- 
people  within  a  radius  of  four  or  five  miles,  and  county 
neighbours,  even  beyond  that  distance,  were  scarce. 
Sometimes  an  old  messmate  of  their  father's  would  come 
down  to  stay  for  a  day  or  two.  Some  of  these  were 
jocular  and  some  were  grumpy.  The  Admiral  took 
them  out  in  his  boat  once  or  twice,  but  Hugh  was  not 
a  good  sailor,  and  Anne  fidgeted,  and  after  a  time  he 
always  went  sailing  alone,  or  with  Dunster. 

Hugh  was  clever  with  his  brush  and  pencil.  Anne 
thought  the  scenes  which  he  dabbled  on  to  paper  with 
water-colours  were  wonderful.  His  efforts  served  to 
fix  in  his  brain  the  beauty  of  the  world  around  him,  and 
he  enjoyed  himself  intensely,  seated  on  the  banks  of  a 
stream,  or  with  his  back  to  a  tree. 


THE   GARDEN  35 

By-and-by  he  told  Anne  that  he  wanted  to  be  an 
artist.  Anne  was  delighted  with  the  idea.  Mr.  Williams 
was  less  encouraging.  "  It  is  not  the  life  for  a  gentle- 
man," he  said.  *'  I  sha'n't  have  anything  to  do  with 
suggesting  it  to  the  Admiral,  Hugh." 

Anne  was  not  present,  or  he  would  not  have  spoken  in 
this  way.  Anne  would  have  told  him  what  he  must  do 
and  he  would  have  done  it.  Dunster,  next  appealed  to, 
was  for  letting  everybody  do  what  pleased  him  or  her 
best,  so  long  as  there  was  nothing  that  had  to  be  done 
which  interfered  with  individual  preferences ;  but  in  this 
case  he  doubted  his  powers  to  assist  an  arrangement. 

"  You  see,  Master  Hugh,"  he  said,  "  I  can  do  a 
good  deal  with  the  Admiral,  so  long  as  he  don't  tumble 
to  it  that  I'm  giving  him  advice  about  what  don't 
concern  me,  or  giving  him  advice  about  anything,  which 
he  won't  put  up  with.  But  if  I  was  to  speak  to  him 
about  a  thing  like  that  I  should  be  sent  off  with  a  flea 
in  my  ear  pretty  quick,  to  attend  to  my  pantry.  The 
Admiral  can  look  wonderful  old-fashioned  at  a  man  if 
he  wants  to.  You'd  better  speak  to  him  yourself,  or 
get  Miss  Anne  to." 

It  needed  courage  for  Hugh  to  address  his  father  on 
a  question  of  this  sort,  which  would  be  sure  to  bring 
down  on  his  head  implied  reproaches  for  his  failure 
to  get  into  the  navy.  But  he  did  not  leave  it  to  Anne ; 
he  made  the  suggestion,  and  it  was  received  in  the  way 
he  had  feared.  The  Admiral  would  not  hear  of  such  a 
thing.  Fiddling  about  with  paper  and  paint  like  a 
schoolgirl!  What  sort  of  an  occupation  in  life  was 


36  MANY   JUNES 

that  for  any  one  who  called  himself  a  man  ?  "  Just  look 
what  you  would  have  been  doing  by  this  time  in  the 

service,  if "  and  so  on.  "  Your  business  now  is 

to  do  your  work  and  get  ready  for  some  profession  in 
which  you  can  use  your  brains  a  bit.  Fiddle  with  your 
paints  and  paper  by  all  means,  in  your  spare  time — 
no  objection  to  that — but  don't  come  to  me  again  with 
such  an  idea  for  spending  your  life."  Hugh  retired, 
dejected,  but  went  on  fiddling  with  his  paints  and  paper 
as  before. 

Dunster,  gauging  the  state  of  Mr.  Williams's  mind 
with  regard  to  Anne  at  an  early  date,  took  steps  to 
have  his  position  defined  for  him.  He  suggested  to  the 
Admiral,  with  ingenuous  innocence,  that  it  would  be 
a  nuisance  for  him  to  be  always  meeting  Mr.  Williams 
about  the  house  and  garden — for  Mr.  Williams  had 
not  taken  Dunster's  own  hint  to  confine  himself  to  his 
own  apartments  unless  by  special  invitation,  but  was 
always  insinuating  himself  into  his  pupils'  company  in 
their  free  hours. 

"  That's  quite  true,  Dunster,"  said  the  Admiral. 
"  Why  the  deuce  can't  the  fellow  keep  to  his  own 
quarters?  Always  meeting  him  about  the  place,  with 
his  stupid  hands  in  his  pockets.  But  what  can  I  do? 
I'm  all  for  discipline,  but  I  can't  very  well  turn  him 
off  the  place  when  I've  got  him  here." 

"  You  leave  that  to  me,  sir,"  said  Dunster.  "  I  can 
put  it  to  him  in  a  delicate  way.  He's  a  nice  gentleman, 
and  him  and  me's  very  good  friends,  begging  your 
pardon,  sir." 


THE   GARDEN  37 

"  Well,  if  you  can  find  a  way — I'll  have  him  up  to 
dine  now  and  then.  It  would  be  a  nuisance  to  have  him 
go,  and  have  to  get  another  one.  I've  no  objection 
to  him,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  always  having  him 
grinning  at  me  round  every  corner." 

"  If  I  might  presoom  to  make  a  suggestion,  sir," 
said  Dunster,  "  I  should  say,  let  Master  Hugh  go 
down  at  his  regular  hours  to  the  lodge,  but  knock  off 
the  time  he  comes  up  here  to  Miss  Anne." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I'm  not  going  to  have  Miss 
Anne  going  down  to  his  rooms.  She's  only  a  child,  but 
if  he  teaches  her  at  all  he's  got  to  come  up  to 
her." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Well,  I  suppose  he's  got  to  be  about  the 
house  an  hour  or  two  every  day." 

"  H'm !  It's  a  nuisance.  Met  him  going  upstairs 
yesterday  as  if  the  place  belonged  to  him,  and  there's 
his  cap  on  the  hall  table.  Where  is  he  now?  " 

"  He's  upstairs,  sir,  talking.     Lessons  is  over." 

"  I  won't  have  him  living  here.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  he  teaches  Miss  Anne." 

"  Mathematics,  sir,  and  such  like,  the  young  lady 
did  tell  me." 

"  What's  the  good  of  that  to  a  woman  ?  If  she  can 
add  up  her  bills  that's  all  the  mathematics  she  wants." 

"  I  did  think  myself,  sir,  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
mention  it,  that  if  Miss  Anne  was  to  read  by  herself, 
something  stiff-like,  every  day,  it  would  be  easier  to  keep 
Mr.  Williams  out  of  the  house." 

"  H'm !     She's  old  enough  to  be  able  to  do  that. 


38  MANY  JUNES 

Well,  I  think  we'll  have  it  so,  Dunster;  and  give  him 
a.  hint,  if  you  can,  to  keep  to  himself  a  bit  more." 

"Yes,  sir;  I  suppose  you'll  tell  him  yourself  about 
Miss  Anne." 

"Ask  him  to  come  to  me  now  and  I'll  get  it  over." 

Dunster  delivered  the  summons.  Mr.  Williams  was 
seated  at  the  table  in  the  schoolroom,  gumming  stamps 
into  Anne's  album.  Anne  liked  stamps,  but  had  an  aver- 
sion to  gum.  He  looked  up  with  some  apprehension  as 
the  message  was  delivered.  "  What  does  he  want?  " 
he  whispered  to  Dunster  as  he  followed  him  downstairs. 

"  It's  about  Miss  Anne,  sir,  I  think,"  said  Dunster, 
and  Mr.  Williams  went  in  to  his  patron  quaking. 

The  Admiral  told  him  of  his  decision  shortly,  and  not 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  allay  his  fears.  He  was  out  of 
the  room  in  less  than  two  minutes,  wondering  whether 
he  was  to  take  the  curt  announcement  that  had  been 
made  to  him  as  a  warning. 

Dunster  happened  to  be  walking  down  the  drive  as 
he  went  out  of  the  hall  door,  and  allowed  himself  to  be 
caught  up.  "  I  was  just  wanting  to  have  a  word  with 
you,  sir,"  he  said.  "  You  know  I  mean  well  towards 
you,  and  you  won't  take  amiss  what  I'm  agoing  to 
say?" 

To  what  was  this  a  prelude  ?  Mr.  Williams's  depres- 
sion increased.  "  No,  of  course  not,"  he  said.  "  What 
is  it?"  • 

"  Well,  sir,  you  know  the  Admiral  isn't  one  to  say 
much  unless  he's  driven  to  it,  and  then  he  flies  out. 
Personally,  I've  always  took  warning  before  the  flying 


THE   GARDEN  39 

v 

out,  when  possible,  and  you  won't  take  it  amiss  if  I 
recommend  you  to  do  the  same." 

"  What  about  ?  "  queried  Mr.  Williams,  in  a  weak 
voice. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  expect  you  know  as  well  as  I  do.  Now 
if  I  was  you  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  do.  I'd  keep  strictly 
to  them  cosy  little  quarters  of  yours,  as  before  advised, 
and  not  be  seen  about  this  here  garden,  nor  in  the 
house,  unless  specially  invited.  That's  my  advice  to 
you,  and  if  kept,  why  we  shall  have  you  living  happily 
here  for  another  three  or  four  years,  'stead  of — well,  I 
won't  say  what  instead  of.  You  don't  take  my  words 
amiss,  sir,  I  hope  ?  " 

Mr.  Williams  did  not  take  them  amiss.  He  discussed 
the  situation  with  himself  during  a  lonely  walk.  The 
perspiration  stood  on  his  brow  at  the  thought  of  what 
the  Admiral  might  have  said,  and  what  he  probably 
would  say  if  he  were  called  upon  to  speak  again.  Mr. 
Williams  decided  that  he  had  been  a  fool.  It  was  all 
his  confounded  impressionable  heart.  He  would  be 
jolly  careful  for  the  future.  But  lor' !  what  a  fool  he 
must  have  been  for  both  the  Admiral  and  Dunster  to 
have  remarked  his  sheep's  eyes !  Why,  the  Admiral  had 
scarcely  ever  seen  him  and  Anne  together. 

So  Dunster's  manoeuvring  had  its  desired  effect.  Mr. 
Williams  curbed  his  impressionable  heart  when  in  Anne's 
presence,  and  found  that  life  was  more  enjoyable  than 
before.  After  a  time  he  regained  the  privilege  of  her 
society,  for  when  Dunster  was  satisfied  that  his  warning 
had  been  efficacious  he  put  no  further  restraint  on  the 


40  MANY   JUNES 

intercourse  that  was  only  natural  under  the  circum- 
stances, and,  as  the  Admiral  was  away  from  Foyle  not 
seldom,  Mr.  Williams  enjoyed  periods  of  immunity  from 
the  restraint  caused  by  his  presence,  and  was  much  with 
his  former  and  present  pupils. 

The  Admiral  had  not  enjoyed  his  purchase  for  long 
before  he  began  to  grow  tired  of  his  isolation.  His 
books,  his  garden,  his  little  farm,  and  his  boat,  as  a 
background  of  interest,  were  well  enough,  but  he  missed 
the  human  companionship  of  which  the  previous  years 
had  been  so  full.  He  secured  visitors  at  Foyle  not 
without  some  difficulty,  for  it  was  far  from  the  busy 
centres  of  life,  and  there  was  not  much  amusement  to 
offer,  especially  in  the  summer.  He  had  never  been  the 
man  to  make  close  individual  friendships,  and  he  missed 
the  stir  and  interest  of  a  life  where  there  had  been  con- 
tinual coming  and  going,  and  a  constant  interchange  of 
news  and  ideas,  a  life  in  which  numerous  acquaintances 
had  pleasantly  distracted  him,  and  demanded  in  return 
only  such  small  change  of  sociability  as  it  had  pleased 
him  to  pay,  without  calling  upon  him  to  honour  drafts 
against  his  time  or  inclination.  He  found  his  old 
friends,  thrown  upon  his  hands  to  entertain  all  day  long 
in  a  solitude  of  two — for  he  seldom  managed  to  secure 
more  than  one  at  a  time — apt  to  bore  instead  of  enliven- 
ing him,  and  after  he  had  been  up  to  town  once  or  twice, 
and  enjoyed  the  sort  of  society  he  preferred — at  his 
club  and  elsewhere — he  furnished  himself  a  set  of  cham- 
bers, and  thenceforward  spent  half  his  time  there.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  was  neglecting  his  children, 


THE  GARDEN  41 

and  the  arrangement  suited  them  admirably ;  for  though 
he  did  not  intentionally  interfere  with  their  'pursuits 
when  he  was  at  home,  there  were  rules  to  be  kept  and 
prejudices  to  be  avoided.  As  for  them,  they  never  left 
Foyle.  Anne  was  to  have  visited  her  grandmother  in! 
August,  but  old  Lady  Wilkinson  was  taken  ill  about 
that  time,  and  only  lived  for  a  few  months  longer,  and 
the  Admiral  would  not  allow  her  to  visit  her  aunt.  His 
permitting  a  girl  of  Anne's  age  to  be  entirely  without  the 
companionship  of  some  woman  who  could  exercise 
authority  and  guidance  over  her  was  not  punished  as 
it  might  have  been,  for  she  grew  up,  in  her  beautiful 
surroundings,  as  sweet  and  fair  as  a  girl  could  be,  and 
even  he,  in  his  cross-grained  way,  liked  to  have  her  near 
him.  Nevertheless,  he  was  dictatorial  to  her,  and  never 
showed  that  her  society  gave  him  any  pleasure. 

With  the  companionship  of  his  son  he  was  frankly 
bored,  and  showed  it,  and  Hugh  retired  into  his  shell 
of  reserve  when  in  his  father's  company,  and  was  silent 
and  even  glum.  But  that  company  was  vouchsafed  to 
him  so  seldom  that  it  made  no  appreciable  mark  on  the 
delights  of  that  royal  summer.  He  did  his  work  with 
Mr.  Williams,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  there  was 
Anne ;  and  Anne  was  everything  to  him — Anne  and  the 
beauty  of  the  garden  and  the  woods  and  fields,  the 
meadow  streams  and  the  chalky  flower-bordered  lanes, 
the  dewy  downs,  the  hot  summer  noons,  the  mellow  after- 
noons, the  dusk  and  the  scented  moonlit  nights:  all  the 
sweet  influences  about  him  that  sank  into  and  expanded 
his  soul  were  mixed  up  with  his  love  for  Anne. 


42  MANY  JUNES 

Anne  was  taken  up  with  her  country  pursuits,  and 
wanted  no  place  but  Foyle,  and  no  companionship  but 
what  she  had.  During  the  summer  she  was  never  in- 
doors when  she  could  possibly  be  in  the  open  air.  Her 
reading  of  "  something  stiff-like  "  by  herself — which 
duty  had  been  imposed  upon  her  by  her  father  without 
his  mentioning  that  it  had  been  Dunster's  suggestion — 
was  pursued  under  a  tree  in  the  orchard,  in  a  hammock 
that  Dunster  had  netted  for  her,  in  the  revivified  punt, 
or  in  the  log  hut.  She  read  religiously  for  an  hour  a 
day — anything  that  looked  stiff  enough  for  the  purpose 
— and  forgot  what  she  had  been  reading  the  moment  the 
hour  was  up. 

The  long  summer  faded  into  autumn,  and  autumn 
into  winter.  The  Admiral  was  more  at  home,  busy  with 
his  few  hundred  acres  of  stubble  and  covert,  but  he 
was  still  away  for  days  together,  and  Anne  and  Hugh 
spent  long1  evenings  in  their  upstairs  sanctuary,  never 
at  a  loss  for  occupation.  Hugh  would  draw  and  Anne 
would  sew;  both  of  them  made  elaborate  and  useless 
articles  with  fret-saws;  both  of  them  collected  foreign 
stamps.  They  classified  their  collections — butterflies, 
plants,  fossils  from  the  chalk  pits.  They  played  bezique 
and  chess  and  draughts,  and  other  games,  together; 
or  they  would  spend  long  evenings  reading.  Anne  would 
lie  buried  in  the  great  shabby  easy-chair  by  the  fire, 
Hugh  would  sit  under  the  lamp  over  the  table,  and  hours 
of  silence  would  pass,  broken  only  by  the  noise  of  the 
fire,  the  turning  of  leaves,  a  cough,  or  a  little  spurt  of 
talk.  Anne  was  very  particular  about  bedtime  and 


THE   GARDEN  43 

about  early  rising,  and  Hugh  followed  her  in  her  self- 
imposed  rules  as  well  as  in  her  proposals  for  enjoy- 
ment. Her  sane  well-balanced  nature  supplied  of  itself 
the  discipline  of  which  her  youth  might  have  felt  the 
lack,  and,  although  she  and  Hugh  both  felt  a  sense  of 
freedom  when  their  father  went  away  and  left  the  house 
to  them,  there  was  nothing  in  their  manner  of  life  that 
he  could  possibly  have  objected  to  when  they  were 
relieved  of  his  presence. 


CHAPTER   IV 

GEOEGE    BLOMFIELD 

THERE  was  an  old  print  hanging  in  the  schoolroom  at 
Foyle  of  the  front  of  a  noble  Elizabethan  mansion,  with 
the  inscription  "  Wyse  Hall,  Suffolk.  The  Seat  of  Sir 
Richard  Lelacheur,  Bart."  Dunster  had  hung  the 
pictures,  as  he  had  arranged  the  furniture  in  the  dif- 
ferent rooms,  or  possibly  the  Admiral  might  not  have 
wished  to  have  this  reminder  of  the  home  of  his  birth 
hanging  where  it  could  constantly  be  seen  by  his  son 
and  daughter.  He  had  never  spoken  to  them  of  his 
elder  brother,  or  of  his  own  boyhood,  or  of  the  home 
of  his  ancestors.  Hugh  had  never  even  heard  of  the 
family  from  which  he  had  sprung — a  family  that  had 
wealth  and  was  before  the  eye  of  the  great  world. 
Anne  told  him  what  she  knew  one  winter  evening 
when  they  were  sitting  before  the  fire  roasting  chest- 
nuts. 

"  Aunt  Sophia  told  me,"  she  said.  "  I  think  she 
had  heard  about  it  from  mother.  It  was  a  great  many 
years  ago,  when  father  was  a  young  man.  He  had  gone 
down  to  shoot  at  Wyse  Hall,  and  he  had  been  put  into 
one  of  the  bachelor  rooms  instead  of  the  room  he  had 
always  had  as  a  boy.  He  was  furious  about  it,  and  left 
the  house  the  next  morning ;  and  he  has  never  spoken  to 
Uncle  Simeon  since." 

44 


GEORGE   BLOMFIELD  45 

"  It  seems  rather  odd  to  make  such  a  fuss  about  a 
rotten  thing  like  that,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Aunt  Sophia  said  it  was  a  splendid  great,  house," 
said  Anne,  "  and  there  were  crowds  of  bedrooms  in  it, 
and  he  thought  they  ought  to  have  kept  his  own  room 
just  as  it  had  been  in  his  father's  time,  especially  as  his 
father  was  only  just  dead  and  his  brother  had  come 
into  a  great  deal  of  money,  while  he  had  not  got  so 
much  as  he  expected." 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Hugh,  "  it  was  a  stupid  thing 
to  quarrel  so  seriously  about.  And  I  don't  suppose 
his  brother  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  either.  In  a 
house  like  that  the  master  would  not  say  what  bed- 
rooms the  people  were  to  have." 

"  I  believe  Uncle  Simeon  was  sorry  about  it,"  said 
Anne ;  "  at  any  rate  he  tried  afterwards  to  make  it 
up  with  father.  But  he  wouldn't,  and  they  have  never 
spoken  to  one  another  since." 

"  It's  rough  luck  on  us.  It  would  have  been  jolly  to 
go  to  a  house  like  that,  and  we  haven't  got  any  other 
relations  except  Granny  and  Aunt  Sophia.  If  he  once 
gets  a  thing  into  his  head  he  can't  get  it  out.  It  was 
just  the  same  with  me  and  the  Navy.  It  wasn't  my 
fault,  but  I  shall  never  hear  the  last  of  it." 

"  There  is  no  doubt,"  said  Anne  reflectively,  "  that 
father  is  obstinate.  And  he  takes  strong  likes  and 
dislikes.  He  can't  bear  poor  Aunt  Sophia — and  she 
is  a  good  old  thing,  really.  But  he's  all  right  to  us, 
isn't  he,  Hugh?" 

Hugh  considered.     "  I  suppose  he  is — in  a  way," 


46  MANY   JUNES 

he  said.  "  It  happens  to  suit  us,  the  way  in  which 
he  leaves  us  alone.  But  of  course  he  doesn't  look 
after  us  in  the  least,  or  care  what  becomes  of  us.  I 
don't  know  what  will  happen  when  we  get  a  bit 
older." 

"Well,  you  are  going  to  Cambridge.  That  is 
settled." 

"Yes;  but  what  will  happen  after  that?  If  I  go 
into  the  Church,  which  he  has  dropped  hints  about — 
and  I'm  sure  I  don't  particularly  want  to — I  can't  live 
here;  and  what  will  you  do?  What  will  you  do  when 
I'm  at  Cambridge?  It  will  be  precious  dull  for  you 
here,  and  you  don't  know  any  one  to  go  to." 

Anne  gazed  into  the  fire.  "  I  don't  think  we  need 
bother  about  that  yet,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "  You 
won't  be  going  to  Cambridge  for  nearly  three  years, 
and  we  shall  be  together  here  until  then.  I  don't  want 
anything  better.  I  love  this  place,  and  everybody  in 
it.  I  don't  want  to  go  away  from  it,  ever.  You  know, 
Hugh,  it  is  all  very  well  to  talk  about  father,  and 
perhaps  it  is  true  that  he  doesn't  look  after  us  much, 
but  we  don't  want  it,  do  we?  We  are  much  happier 
than  other  people  of  our  age.  I'm  sure  of  that,  because 
I  remember  at  St.  Leonards  nobody  of  our  age  was  so 
free  as  we  are.  I  love  waking  up  in  the  morning  and 
thinking  of  another  day  to  come.  Whatever  happens 
to  us  in  the  future  we  shall  always  have  this  to  look 
back  on.  And  you  love  it  all  quite  as  much  as  I  do, 
don't  you?" 

"  Well,"  said  Hugh,  reflecting  in  his  turn,  "  of  course 


GEORGE   BLOMFIELD  4tf 

it  isn't  in  my  nature  to  enjoy  things  quite  in  the  same 
way  as  you  do." 

Anne  laughed  at  him.  "  I  never  think  about  myself 
like  that,"  she  said.  "  I  just  take  everything  as  it 
comes.  But  I  enjoy  myself  here  so  much  that  I've  got 
to  talk  about  it  sometimes,  you  know,  Hugh,  so  that 
you  can  take  hold  of  it  all." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  wise  Hugh,  "  it  isn't 
enough  only  to  be  happy.  You've  got  to  know  that 
you  are  happy." 

Probably  few  boys  or  girls  of  sixteen  or  thereabouts 
are  so  consciously  happy  that  they  do  not  look  forward 
to  a  future  of  still  more  blissful  happiness;  but  Foyle 
and  the  country  around  it,  and  their  active  untram- 
melled life,  had  cast  such  a  spell  on  these  two  that 
they  wished  for  nothing  better,  and  the  limit  of  their 
ambition  for  the  future  was  to  live  at  Foyle  together 
for  the  rest  of  their  lives,  much  as  they  were  living 
now.  Such  a  life  could  not  be  expected  to  last  without 
changes,  nor  perhaps  such  an  ambition,  but  it  did  last 
without  diminution  of  their  enjoyment  of  it  for  two 
happy  untroubled  years. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  Anne  was  nineteen,  a  woman 
grown,  straight  and  tall,  abounding  in  health  and  ac- 
tivity. Hugh  was  tall  too,  and  his  features  were  be- 
ginning to  wear  the  stamp  of  manhood.  He  had 
little  share  of  Anne's  beauty,  except  in  his  big  dark 
eyes,  but  his  face  was  refined,  and  would  not  be  with- 
out distinction.  Nothing  but  the  steady  growth  of 
brother  and  sister  had  changed  at  Foyle  during  those 


48  MANY  JUNES 

two  years.  Neither  Anne  nor  Hugh  had  slept  for  a 
night  out  of  the  house,  and  the  only  visitor  they  had 
had,  except  the  Admiral's  friends,  was  their  aunt,  who 
had  come  to  stay  for  a  fortnight  in  the  spring  after  old 
Lady  Wilkinson's  death.  The  Admiral  had  granted 
that  much,  perhaps  not  wishing  to  quarrel  with  her 
finally  on  account  of  her  wealth,  which  was  now  con- 
siderable, and  might  be  expected  in  the  course  of  nature 
to  come  to  his  children,  who  were  her  only  living  rela- 
tions. He  was  her  trustee,  and  remained  at  Foyle  for 
two  days  of  her  visit,  to  talk  business,  and  then  betook 
himself  to  London,  and  did  not  return  until  after  her 
departure. 

Miss  Wilkinson  could  not  but  be  struck  with  the  way 
her  niece  was  growing  up,  although  she  confided  to  old 
Mrs.  Bouverie  her  horror  at  the  idea  of  a  young  girl 
being  left  to  herself  in  a  household  of  men,  with  no 
older  woman  to  advise  or  direct  her. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  Anne  has  a  very 
sweet  and  true  character.  I  have  watched  her,  and  if 
I  had  seen  that  all  was  not  well  I  should  have  spoken, 
much  as  I  should  have  disliked  doing  so.  At  present 
there  is  no  need  to  say  anything.  You  will  not  say, 
I  think,  that  there  is  any  need." 

Miss  Wilkinson  could  not  say  that  there  was,  and 
was  comforted  for  Anne's  sake.  But  she  could  not 
but  feel  it  hard  that  neither  Anne  nor  Hugh  should  be 
allowed  to  visit  her  in  her  big  but  rather  lonely  house 
on  the  Marina,  for  the  Admiral,  for  some  crabbed  rea- 
son of  his  own,  would  never  give  his  permission.  He 


GEORGE   BLOtyFIELD  49 

himself  was  more  in  London  than  ever  after  the  first 
winter  at  Foyle,  but  life  went  on  placidly  and  equably 
without  him.  Where  all  would  have  been  monotonous 
sameness  to  one  out  of  sympathy  with  Nature,  Anne 
and  Hugh  found  a  thousand  varieties.  There  was  the 
ever-changing  procession  of  the  seasons  to  delight  and 
excite  them,  from  the  time  of  the  first  snowdrop, 
through  the  bursting  clamorous  life  of  spring  up  to 
the  glories  of  high  summer,  the  fall  of  the  year,  the 
call  of  the  warm  hearth,  and  the  culmination  of  Christ- 
mas time.  Dunster  watched  over  them  like  a  father,  and 
was  a  mine  of  resource  in  all  their  pleasures.  Some- 
times the  sea  would  summon  him,  and  he  would  leave 
them  for  a  day  or  two  apologetically,  coming  back 
braced  for  his  duties  with  wonderful  tales  of  days  and 
nights  on  the  deep  waters.  Mr.  Williams  had  the  dis- 
traction of  regular  holidays,  which  he  spent  in  the 
Yorkshire  manufacturing  town  of  his  birth.  Otherwise 
he  led  a  vegetable  existence.  He  was  comfortable  in  his 
cottage  rooms,  his  duties  provided  him  with  some  in- 
terest, and  his  admiration  for  Anne,  if  no  longer  of  a 
dangerously  inflammable  order,  added  salt  to  his  life. 
At  the  end  of  two  years,  when  events  began  to  move 
quickly,  he  was  thinking  of  growing  a  beard,  but  other- 
wise the  march  of  time  had  left  no  mark  on  him. 

One  day,  early  in  the  third  June,  a  letter  came  from 
the  Admiral,  from  London,  announcing  his  arrival  by 
his  usual  train  on  the  following  Friday,  and  that  of  a 
guest,  for  whom  a  room  was  to  be  made  ready.  The 
announcement  caused  little  excitement  to  Anne  and 


50  MANY  JUNES 

Hugh.  Some  of  their  father's  infrequent  guests  hail 
taken  a  certain  amount  of  notice  of  them,  others  had 
taken  none,  but  not  one  of  them  had  added  to  the 
delights  that  life  at  Foyle  presented  when  they  were 
left  to  themselves.  It  was  not  probable  that  this  Mr. 
Blomfield,  whose  name  was  new  to  them,  would  prove 
more  companionable  than  others  of  their  father's 
friends. 

They  were  on  the  lawn  with  Mr.  Williams  as  the 
waggonette  drove  up  to  the  house  on  Friday  evening. 
Seated  beside  their  father  was  a  big  young  man,  with  a 
bronzed  face,  fair  hair,  and  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  which 
took  in  the  little  group  under  the  cedar  with  consider- 
able interest — contrary  to  the  custom  of  the  Admiral's 
friends,  who  usually  took  no  notice  of  them  until  they; 
were  forced  on  their  attention,  when  they  grunted, 
amiably  or  gruffly,  as  their  several  natures  impelled 
them.  This  visit  was  evidently  going  to  be  one  of  an 
unprecedented  character,  for  the  first  thing  the  Admiral 
did  on  alighting  from  the  carriage  was  to  beckon  Anne 
and  Hugh,  and  introduce  them  to  his  guest,  with  an 
intimation  to  them  to  look  after  his  welfare  and  show 
him  the  place. 

The  young  man's  eyes  were  on  Anne  the  whole  time. 
Anne  was  undisturbed,  but  friendly.  "  We  shall  have 
time  to  go  round  before  dinner  if  you  would  like  to," 
she  said. 

Mr.  George  Blomfield  desired  nothing  better.  The 
Admiral  grunted  acquiescence,  and  retired  indoors,  and 
.the  inspection  of  garden  and  farmyard  went  forward. 


GEORGE   BLOMFIELD  51 

Mr.  Williams,  hanging  in  the  background,  was  brought 
forward  and  introduced  and  joined  the  personally  con- 
ducted tour.  He  took  an  unaccountable  dislike  to  this 
big  well-favoured  young  man.  What  did  he  mean  by 
being  so  bluff  and  self-satisfied,  and  what  did  he  mean 
by  those  sidelong  glances  at  the  face  of  his  companion, 
who  was  frankly  initiating  him  into  secrets  which  he, 
Mr.  Williams,  had  never  been  invited  to  penetrate?  He 
was  rather  a  sulky  tutor  as  he  dragged  at  the  heels 
of  the  exploring  party,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  his  big  moustache  drooping  over  his  big  loose 
mouth,  a  contrast  in  every  way  to  the  tall  alert  figure 
of  the  newcomer,  with  his  keen  sunburnt  face. 

The  reason  of  that  peculiar  shade  of  tan,  as  well  as 
the  presence  of  a  man  of  under  thirty  as  a  guest  of 
Admiral  Lelacheur,  was  soon  revealed.  George  Blom- 
field  was  the  son  of  a  New  South  Wales  squatter,  who 
had  treated  the  Admiral  with  the  openhanded  hospi- 
tality of  his  kind  during  the  period  of  his  Australian 
command.  He  was  now  home  on  a  holiday,  and  had 
looked  up  his  father's  frequent  guest  at  his  club,  ac- 
cording to  instructions.  The  Admiral  had  invited  him 
to  Foyle  for  the  week-end,  probably  because  he  felt  him- 
self bound  to  offer  him  some  hospitality,  and  happened 
to  be  leaving  London  himself.  The  young  man  had 
accepted  the  invitation  more  because  he  did  not  know 
how  to  refuse  than  because  he  wanted  to  go,  for  he  had 
only  just  arrived  in  England,  and  the  pleasures  of  the 
metropolis  were  still  awaiting  his  participation.  How 
he  shuddered  when  he  thought  of  what  he  might  have 


52  MANY   JUNES 

missed  if  he  had  summoned  up  courage  to  say  that  he 
was  not  ready  to  bury  himself  in  the  depths  of  the 
country,  even  for  two  days;  but  he  did  not  tell  Anne 
this  until  a  little  later. 

This  great  brawny  handsome  man  had  the  heart 
of  a  child.  He  proved  so  knowledgeable  in  the  farm- 
yard, which  they  visited  first,  that  Anne's  quick  under- 
standing, and  Hugh's  slower  one,  warmed  towards  him, 
and  talk  waxed  furious.  Mr.  Williams  retired  in  a 
huff,  to  shave  and  otherwise  prepare  himself  for  the 
Admiral's  dinner-table,  to  which  he  had  been  invited, 
an  hour  later.  He  thought  the  fellow  insufferably  con- 
ceited, swaggering  with  his  rough  colonial  knowledge, 
which  was  of  no  interest  to  gentlemen.  His  departure 
was  a  relief.  Drawn  on  by  the  exhibition  of  fellow- 
feeling,  Anne  disclosed  more  of  her  and  her  brother's 
intimate  pursuits  than  had  ever  been  confided  to  a 
stranger,  and  he  entered  into  it  all  with  the  keenest 
en  j  oyment. 

"  It's  glorious/'  he  said,  as  they  strolled  back  to  the 
house  in  the  peace  of  the  long  summer  evening.  "  I 
was  in  England  for  years — at  Harrow  and  at  Cam- 
bridge— but  I  didn't  remember  how  lovely  the  English 
country  was  in  the  summer.  I  was  either  longing  for 
the  winter,  when  there  was  sport  to  be  had,  or  else 
wishing  myself  back  in  the  Bush.  I  think  this  place 
is  just  heavenly.  Thank  goodness  I'm  going  to  have 
two  whole  days  of  it !  We'll  have  a  rare  time  together." 

Anne  and  Hugh  both  responded  warmly.  There  was 
no  shyness  left  between  them  and  this  new  delightful 


GEORGE   BLOMFIELD  53 

companion,  the  first  who  had  ever  shared  their  dearest 
pleasures  with  them. 

At  dinner  the  talk  was  of  the  Australian  Bush,  and 
Anne  and  Hugh  listened  with  delight  and  ever-increas- 
ing respect  to  their  new  friend's  tales  of  his  free  and 
open  life.  The  Admiral  was  more  agreeably  conversa- 
tional than  was  his  wont,  and  Dunster's  face,  as  he 
moved  round  the  table,  was  a  study  of  appreciative 
complaisance.  Only  Mr.  Williams  sat  silent  and  glum, 
eating  his  portion  of  food,  drinking  rather  more  than 
his  portion  of  wine,  and  in  the  intervals  fingering  his 
chin,  now  adorned  by  a  small  tuft  of  cotton-wool. 

After  dinner  the  Admiral  retired  to  his  room,  and 
the  rest  of  the  small  party  went  out  into  the  scented 
dusk  of  the  garden.  It  was  owing  to  Mr.  Williams  that 
George  Blomfield  and  Anne  strolled  to  and  fro  on  the 
lawn  while  he  and  Hugh  talked  together.  He  was  not 
going  to  be  dragged  in  the  train  of  this  upstart. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  think  about  that  fellow," 
he  said  to  Hugh,  "  but  I  think  you'll  find  you've  made 
a  mistake  if  you  let  him  get  too  familiar.  No  Colonial 
that  I've  ever  met  knows  how  to  behave  himself  like  a 
gentleman,  and  this  one  is  no  exception.  Of  course 
they  are  never  educated  properly  to  begin  with." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  being  educated 
properly,"  said  Hugh,  in  surprise.  "  Blomfield  was  at 
Harrow  and  at  Trinity,  Cambridge." 

"  Oh,  was  he?  "  said  Mr.  Williams,  somewhat  taken 
aback.  He  had  the  greatest  respect  for  both  those 
institutions.  "  Well,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it." 


54  MANY  JUNES 

"What's  wrong  with  him?"  pursued  Hugh.  "I 
think  he's  a  splendid  fellow.  And  Anne  thinks  so  too." 

This  was  gall  to  Mr.  Williams.  "  I  hope  Miss 
Anne  won't  have  reason  to  change  her  mind,"  he  said. 
"  I  hate  all  that  colonial  swagger  myself,  but  then, 
perhaps,  I'm  more  particular  than  other  people." 

"  Perhaps  you  are,"  said  Hugh,  and  the  conversation 
(languished. 

The  conversation  between  Anne  and  George  Blom- 
field,  as  they  walked  to  and  fro  across  the  springy 
turf,  would  have  seemed  the  most  natural  in  the  world 
to  Hugh,  but  if  old  Mrs.  Bouverie  had  happened  to 
overhear  it  her  watchful  ears  might  have  detected  a  new 
note,  unfamiliar  to  her  from  the  child  she  loved  so  well. 
Anne  was  simply  pouring  out  in  a  flood  the  tale  of  all 
the  delights  she  found  in  the  life  around  her,  but  she 
was  telh'ng  her  tale  as  if  she  had  always  longed  for  a 
listening  ear  into  which  she  might  pour  it,  and  as  if  she 
had  found  that  ear  for  the  first  time.  And  no  woman, 
unless  perhaps  the  one  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  could 
have  failed  to  catch  the  keen  responsive  note  of  delight 
with  which  her  confidences  were  answered.  When  night 
had  settled  down  over  the  lawns  and  trees,  and  the 
three  of  them  went  indoors,  George  Blomfield  blinked 
at  the  not  over-brilliant  lamplight  in  the  hall  as  if  his 
eyes  were  dazzled. 

Hugh  received  a  shock  of  surprise  when  he  awoke 
the  next  morning  to  find  Dunster  in  his  room,  and 
learnt  that  it  was  eight  o'clock.  He  never  woke  early 
of  his  own  accord,  but  Anne  had  always  hitherto  aroused 


GEORGE   BLOMFIELD  55 

him  at  the  hour  at  which  they  had  decided  to  begin  their 
day.  It  was  unlike  her  to  have  overslept  herself,  es- 
pecially on  such  a  glorious  summer  morning  as  wafted 
its  perfumed  breath  into  his  room.  He  received  a 
second  shock  when  he  looked  out  of  the  window  and 
saw  Anne  and  Mr.  George  Blomfield,  engaged  in  eager 
conversation,  sitting  opposite  to  one  another  in  the  old 
punt,  which  was  drifting  in  the  middle  of  the  lake.  He 
felt  a  pang  of  jealousy.  George  Blomfield  was  cer- 
tainly an  agreeable  companion,  and  his  advent  was  a 
boon  both  to  himself  and  Anne./  But  she  ought  not  to 
have  cut  her  brother  off  from  his  share  in  the  compan- 
ionship, which  he  enjoyed  as  much  as  she  did,  nor  ought 
she  to  have  shown  so  patently,  by  omitting  to  call  him, 
that  she  wanted  it  all  to  herself. 

His  insight  did  not  pierce  further  than  the  obvious 
fact  that  Anne  liked  to  talk  to  their  new  friend  and 
to  listen  to  him  talking.  So  did  he.  The  possibility 
of  any  one  falling  instantly  in  love  with  Anne  did  not 
present  itself  to  his  mind,  still  less  the  possibility  of 
Anne  falling  in  love  with  anybody.  Nor,  apparently, 
did  that  possibility  present  itself  to  Anne's  father,  for 
he  went  his  own  way,  and  left  his  guest  to  be  enter- 
tained by  his  son  and  daughter.  It  is  not  to  be  sup- 
posed that  he  knew  what  had  come  about  so  suddenly, 
and  was  content  to  await  developments,  for  he  regarded 
Anne  as  a  child,  and  no  more  than  Hugh  thought  her 
capable  of  arousing  passion  in  the  soul  of  a  man.  He 
left  his  guest  to  the  society  of  his  children,  because  he 
Jiad  a  good  many  things  to  do,  and  did  not  want  to 


56  MANY  JUNES 

be  bothered  with  him  except  at  mealtimes,  when  he  was 
pleased  to  hear  him  talk. 

On  Sunday  evening  the  Admiral  asked  his  guest  why 
he  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  London.  Mr. 
Blomfield  replied  instantly  that  he  was  in  no  sort  of 
a  hurry,  and  it  was  quickly  settled  that  he  should  stay 
for  a  week.  The  next  four  days  he  spent  almost  en- 
tirely in  Anne's  society. 

Hugh's  eyes  were  opened  to  what  was  going  on  by 
Mr.  Williams,  who  told  him  that  the  fellow  was  mak- 
ing love  to  Miss  Anne,  and  he  had  better  not  let  them 
out  of  his  sight.  Hugh  refused  to  believe  it  at  first, 
but  when  he  found  that  his  proffered  company  was 
politely  but  persistently  evaded — not  only  by  George 
Blomfield  but  also  by  his  sister — he  began  to  think 
that  there  was  something  in  it,  and,  thrown  back  on 
the  society  of  his  tutor,  shared  something  of  that  gentle- 
man's indignation.  All  doubt  on  the  subject  was  swept 
away  from  his  mind  when  George  sought  him  out  of  his 
own  accord  one  evening,  at  a  time  when  Anne  was  not 
available,  and  told  him  point  blank  that  his  sister  was 
the  most  beautiful  girl  he  had  ever  seen,  and  that  his 
future  life  would  be  useless  to  him  without  her. 

"  Rather  sudden,  isn't  it?  "  said  Hugh. 

George  admitted  that  it  was  rather  sudden  from  one 
point  of  view — that  of  Anne's  brother,  who  could  not 
be  expected  to  see  what  a  pearl  among  girls  she  was. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Hugh.  "I  like 
her  better  than  anybody  in  the  world,  but  then  I  know 
her,  and  you  don't." 


GEORGE   BLOMFIELD  57 

George  would  not  admit  that.  He  did  know  her,  and 
it  was  because  he  did  know  her  that  he  could  not  live 
without  her. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Hugh. 
"  You're  going  away  on  Friday,  and  you  can't  take 
her  with  you." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  am  going  away  on  Friday," 
replied  George.  "  If  I  do,  I  shall  come  back  again." 

Hugh  digested  this  information.  "  I  hope  you  will," 
he  said.  "  If  Anne  has  got  to  marry  somebody — and 
I  suppose  she  must  some  day  or  other — I'd  just  as  soon 
she  married  you  as  anybody.  Shall  I  say  anything  to 
her?  " 

"  For  goodness  sake,  don't,"  said  George,  in  deep 
alarm.  "  I  can  say  what  I  want  myself  when  the 
time  comes." 

The  time  came  after  dinner  on  Wednesday  evening, 
when  George  and  Anne  walked  together  again  in  the 
gloaming,  choosing  the  dark  shrubbery  walks,  and  not 
the  moonlit  lawn.  Hugh  was  left  disconsolate,  and 
went  up  to  the  schoolroom  to  read.  The  Admiral  was 
in  his  study. 

Hugh  sat  at  the  table,  as  was  his  wont,  his  book 
before  him  and  his  head  resting  on  his  hands.  He  had 
meant  to  read,  but  he  could  only  think.  Was  it  possi- 
ble that  this  strange  new  thing  was  coming  to  Anne, 
that  he  and  his  affection  for  her  were  quite  wiped  out 
by  it,  and  as  if  they  had  never  been? — so  little  nec- 
essary, he  told  himself,  that  for  the  past  two  days  she 
had  exercised  her  ingenuity  in  avoiding  him.  It  was 


58  MANY  JUNES 

rather  hard  on  him,  he  thought.  She  might  have  known 
that,  if  she  had  really  arrived  at  that  state  of  mind 
in  which  she  wanted  George  Blomficld  as  much  as 
he  had  asserted  that  he  wanted  her,  no  word  of  re- 
proach would  have  come  from  her  brother.  She  might 
have  told  him  what  was  in  her  mind  and  been  sure 
of  his  sympathy.  It  was  incredible  to  him  that  she 
should  have  come  to  that  state  of  mind  in  so  short 
a  time;  but  he  could  hardly  doubt  the  fact.  She 
had  not  spoken — she  had  avoided  his  company  so  that 
she  might  not  be  obliged  to  speak — but  her  face  had 
been  transfigured;  she  had  been  a  different  creature, 
happier,  more  beautiful,  even,  than  the  happy, 
beautiful  sister  he  knew  so  well.  He  wondered  that 
his  father  could  have  been  blind  to  it,  it  was 
so  plain.  He  supposed  that  that  was  called  love.  It 
was  a  strange,  unaccountable  thing,  quite  outside  his 
experience;  if  it  came  suddenly  like  that,  he  rather 
hoped  he  should  never  be  called  upon  to  undergo  it. 

He  sat  there  for  an  hour  or  more.  The  window 
behind  him  was  open.  The  soft  night  air  stole  into  the 
room,  and  moths  came  fluttering  in  with  it  and  flitted 
about  the  lamp  over  his  head.  Somewhere  out  there  the 
inexplicable  drama  was  being  played  which  was  trans- 
forming the  sister  of  whose  every  thought  he  had  im- 
agined himself  master  into  a  strange  new  being  whom 
he  did  not  know  at  all.  But  he  would  not  get  up  and 
look  out  of  the  window;  he  would  wait  until  Anne  came 
back. 

The  door  opened  and  Anne  stood  before  him,  in  her 


GEORGE   BLOMFIELD  59 

pretty  girlish  evening  dress,  with  such  a  radiant  look 
on  her  face  that  he  could  only  sit  stupidly  and  look 
at  her. 

"  Oh,  Hugh,"  she  said,  coming  a  step  forward  and 
standing  over  him.  "  I  must  tell  you  first  of  all,  even 
before  I  go  and  think  it  over  by  myself." 

"  I  don't  want  any  telling,"  said  Hugh.  "  It  has 
been  pretty  plain." 

Her  face  grew  a  little  puzzled  as  she  looked  at 
him.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  know?  "  she 
said. 

"  How  could  I  help  it?  He  told  me  last  night,  and 
for  two  whole  days  you  haven't  spoken  a  word  to  me — 
if  you  could  get  out  of  it." 

The  sight  of  him  sitting  there,  solitary,  who  had 
never  had  to  sit  alone  since  they  had  been  together, 
drove  a  spike  of  compunction  into  her  happiness.  She 
bent  over  him  and  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  resting 
her  soft  cheek  on  his  hair.  "  Dear  Hugh,"  she  said 
tenderly,  "  have  I  been  very  selfish?  I  didn't  know  I 
had.  I  haven't  thought  at  all.  I  have  just  been 
happy.  And  you  must  be  happy  with  me.  You  will, 
won't  you?  " 

"I  suppose  he's  asked  you  to  marry  him?"  was 
Hugh's  reply  to  this  appeal. 

"  Yes ;  and  he  has  only  known  me  these  few  days. 
I  can't  believe  it  is  true — me  out  of  all  the  other  girls 
in  the  world!  Oh,  Hugh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  I 
am  so  happy." 

There  was  a  quiver  in  her  voice  which  pierced  his 


60  MANY   JUNES 

heart,  but  he  sat  glumly,  without  responding  to  her 
caress. 

"  Where  is  he?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  has  gone  to  talk  to  father.  He  wouldn't  wait 
till  to-morrow."  She  laughed  lightly.  "  Think  what 
a  shock  it  will  be  to  father.  You  don't  think  he'll  say 
no,  Hugh?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  he  should.  He  doesn't  care  a  bit 
what  happens  to  us." 

"  Hugh,"  she  said,  "  you  are  not  vexed  with  me,  are 
you?  You  are  glad  that  I  have  been  made  so  happy?  " 

He  pushed  away  the  sense  of  blankness  and  dismay 
that  was  settling  on  him,  and  took  her  hand.  "  Of 
course  I  am,  Anne,"  he  said,  and  added  boldly :  "  And 
I  hope  you'll  go  on  being  happy." 


CHAPTER    V 

ANNE'S  MARRIAGE 

To  say  that  the  Admiral  was  surprised  at  the  news  con- 
veyed to  him  by  his  guest  of  two  days  would  be  to 
understate  the  case.  He  was  as  astounded  as  if  the  at- 
traction of  a  man  for  a  maid  was  a  matter  entirely  out- 
side his  experience.  "  God  bless  my  soul !  "  he  said. 
"Anne!  That  child!" 

George  Blomfield  pointed  out  to  him  that  Anne  was 
no  longer  a  child,  but  a  beautiful  woman,  and  inti- 
mated that  no  man  of  marriageable  age  could  be  ex- 
pected to  be  in  her  company  without  wishing  to  make 
the  request  for  her  hand  which  he  was  now  making. 

The  Admiral  digested  these  statements,  and,  although 
he  found  further  matter  for  surprise  in  them,  did  not 
gainsay  them.  He  supposed  he  knew  that  Anne  would 
marry  some  day  or  other,  but  that  that  day  had  al- 
ready come — that's  what  took  the  wind  out  of  his  sails. 
Had  Anne  said  yes? 

Her  lover  said  that  she  had. 

"  The  young  monkey !  "  said  the  Admiral.  "  She's 
lost  no  time  about  it.  Where  can  she  have  got  such 
ideas?" 

George  Blomfield  embarked  on  a  rapturous  laudation 
of  her  state  of  innocence.  Her  nature,  it  seemed,  was 
so  perfect  that  she  had  never  thought  of  love  until 

61  • 


62  MANY  JUNES 

love  had  been  offered  to  her,  and  then  she  had  accepted 
it  as  the  greatest  boon  in  life ;  as  it  was. 

The  Admiral  thought  that  explanation  probably  met 
the  case.  "  She's  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  "  and  she's 
had  nothing  to  spoil  her.  I  knew  what  I  was  about 
when  I  brought  her  down  here  and  let  her  grow  up  in 
the  country  by  herself,  without  some  old  cat  to  put 
ideas  into  her  head." 

George  Blomfield  cordially  agreed  with  him  that  no 
life  could  have  l?een  better  for  a  girl  than  the  one  that 
Anne  had  led  at  Foyle. 

"  Well,  that's  all  very  well,"  said  the  Admiral,  "  but 
this  is  a  great  surprise  to  me,  and  I  must  take  a  little 
time  to  think  it  over." 

The  lover  pleaded  for  an  instant  decision.  He  must 
be  back  in  Australia  for  the  shearing,  and  he  wanted 
to  take  Anne  with  him.  He  wanted  to  be  married  in 
a  month's  time  and  to  spend  a  week  or  two  on  the  Con- 
tinent before  joining  the  outgoing  liner  at  Brindisi. 
He  could  satisfy  the  Admiral  as  to  his  means,  and 
why  delay? 

The  very  boldness  of  his  plea  served  him.  The  Ad- 
miral liked  him  personally,  and  had  no  objection  on 
principle  to  his  daughter  marrying  the  man  she  loved. 
It  was  plain  that  he  had  no  ambition  for  Anne  to  make 
a  better  marriage  than  that  now  proposed  to  him, 
for  he  made  no  demur  to  George's  statement  of  his 
position,  nor  even  to  the  fact  that  Anne,  if  she  mar- 
ried him,  would  be  taken  away  to  the  other  side  of 
the  world.  He  supposed,  he  said,  that  they  could 


ANNE'S   MARRIAGE  63 

come  home  every  now  and  then,  and  George  said  that 
they  would. 

In  some  ways,  despite  his  wide  knowledge  of  ±he 
world  and  his  strong  personal  prejudices,  Admiral  Le- 
lacheur  was  as  unsophisticated  as  a  child,  and  George 
found  that  he  had  little  opposition  to  overcome  on  a 
point  that  he  feared  might  have  been  difficult  to  meet. 
That  he,  from  the  point  of  view  of  an  English  family  of 
distinction,  an  obscure  Colonial,  should  be  granted  this 
peerless  girl,  whom  the  highest  in  the  land  might  be 
proud  to  call  his  own,  was  almost  too  much  to  hope  for ; 
but  when  he  found  that  the  Admiral's  ever-lessening 
objections  to  his  proposal  were  not  concerned  with  his 
place  in  the  world  he  redoubled  his  efforts  to  remove 
those  which  in  his  eyes  were  none  at  all.  And  at  last 
he  succeeded. 

"  Well,  it's  all  very  sudden,"  said  the  Admiral,  rub- 
bing his  grizzled  head,  "  but  I  don't  know  that  I've 
much  against  it.  I  sha'n't  say  yes  tonight,  but  I  sha'n't 
say  no.  Stop  here  for  a  bit  longer,  at  any  rate, 
and  we'll  see  how  things  turn  out.  I  shall  miss  the 
girl,  of  course,  but  I  mustn't  let  that  stand  in  her  way." 

This  was  but  a  preface  to  complete  capitulation. 
George  Blomfield  had  won  his  bride  by  a  sudden  stroke, 
and  Foyle  Manor  was  plunged  into  preparations  for  the 
wedding  and  for  the  long  voyage  across  the  seas  almost 
before  the  Admiral  had  recovered  from  his  stupefac- 
tion at  being  asked  for  his  daughter.  He  made  his 
escape  to  London,  and  Miss  Wilkinson  came  down  im- 
mediately upon  the  turning  of  his  back.  She  thought 


64  MANY   JUNES 

that  a  great  mistake  had  been  made,  and  said  so  to  old 
Mrs.  Bouverie,  who  disagreed  with  her.  But  Anne's 
radiant  happiness  and  her  lover's  fine  qualities  recon- 
ciled her  to  the  match,  and  she  ceased  repining. 

To  Hugh  the  month  which  elapsed  before  the  wedding 
passed  away  like  a  dream.  There  were  comings  and 
goings.  Sometimes  Anne  was  taken  to  London,  and 
he  was  left  alone  at  Foyle  with  Mr.  Williams,  whose 
prophecies  of  disaster  were  of  the  gloomiest,  and  with 
Dunster,  who  foretold  great  happiness  for  his  young 
mistress,  and  said  he  had  seen  it  coming  from  the  first, 
but  was  not  at  his  brightest.  Then  the  house  would 
suddenly  be  filled  again,  but  he  was  so  seldom  alone 
with  his  sister,  and  everything  in  their  lives  had  so 
completely  changed,  that,  when  he  was,  he  was  tongue- 
tied,  and  responded  poorly  to  her  expressions  of  affec- 
tion and  of  regret  at  their  coming  separation.  The 
sense  of  blankness  which  had  seized  upon  him  when  he 
first  realized  what  was  coming  to  pass  grew,  but  during 
this  month  of  June  he  had  never  faced  it,  nor  allowed 
himself  to  think  what  his  life  would  be  when  he  and 
Anne  should  be  parted. 

And  during  that  month  Anne  herself  lived  and  moved 
in  a  dream,  but  hers  was  a  dream  of  happiness.  What 
George  had  told  her  father  was  true.  Love  had  never 
so  much  as  brushed  her  with  his  wings,  and  the  awak- 
ening had  been  sudden  and  complete.  She  surrendered 
her  whole  soul  to  her  lover  without  one  impulse  of 
shrinking,  and  never,  thought  that  happy  youth,  could 
there  have  been  so  perfect  a  prelude  to  marriage  as 


ANNE'S   MARRIAGE  65 

theirs.  Every  nook  of  the  garden  which  she  loved  was 
beautified  to  her  afresh  by  his  presence,  and  to  him 
those  green  lawns  and  shady  paths,  with  the  scent  of 
flowers  and  the  warm  summer  air  pervading  them,  was 
a  paradise  of  delight,  over  which  Anne  reigned  as 
queen. 

And  so  the  days  drew  on  quickly  to  the  great  day 
that  was  to  make  Anne  a  bride.  It  was  as  quiet  a 
wedding  as  it  very  well  could  be.  Anne  had  only  one 
bridesmaid,  a  girl  whom  she  had  known  as  a  child  at 
Hastings.  George's  best  man  was  an  old  schoolfellow, 
and  the  only  other  guests  were  Anne's  godfather,  a  dis- 
tinguished admiral,  still  on  active  service,  who  made 
himself  very  agreeable  and  soundly  rated  Admiral  Le- 
lacheur  for  keeping  such  a  rose  hidden  for  so  long 
in  his  garden;  and  Miss  Wilkinson,  to  whom  her 
brother-in-law  was  almost  polite  during  the  period  of 
her  visit. 

On  the  evening  before  the  wedding  day,  Dunster, 
whose  sudden  melancholy  at  the  prospect  of  losing  Anne 
had  almost  entirely  been  driven  away  by  the  unusual 
amount  of  bustle  that  was  taking  place,  largely  under 
his  own  directions,  was  uplifted  almost  to  a  state  of 
ecstasy  by  the  number  of  people  upon  whom  he  waited 
at  dinner.  Dunster  prided  himself  upon  his  capacity 
to  superintend  a  dinner,  but  during  the  whole  time  of 
his  service  at  Foyle  there  had  never  been  more  than  six 
people  to  wait  on  at  the  same  time.  Now  there  were 
ten,  for  the  Rector  and  Mr.  Williams  were  of  the  party, 
besides  George  and  three  in  the  house.  There  was 


66  MANY   JUNES 

plenty  of  merriment,  for  Anne's  godfather  was  as 
hearty  an  old  sea-dog  as  ever  cracked  a  joke,  and  most 
of  the  younger  members  of  the  party  were  in  high 
spirits.  Only  Hugh  went  through  the  dinner  with  a 
heavy  heart,  and  stole  sidelong  glances  at  Anne,  talking 
and  laughing  as  if  she  were  not  going  to  leave  him 
for  long  years. 

Later  in  the  evening  he  stood  by  the  front  door  of 
the  house  under  the  stars.  Anne  had  gone  down  the 
drive  with  her  lover,  who  was  going  back  to  the  Rectory 
to  sleep,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  been  gone 
an  unconscionable  time,  for  he  had  something  to  say 
to  her.  To  his  great  annoyance,  Mr.  Williams  came 
out  of  the  house,  in  a  cap  and  overcoat,  smoking  a  large 
cigar. 

"  Hullo,  old  chap,"  he  cried  expansively.  "  I 
couldn't  think  what  had  become  of  you.  Been  all  over 
the  house  looking  for  you.  Walk  back  to  the  lodge 
with  me.  It's  a  lovely  night.'' 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Hugh.  "  I  want  to  speak  to 
Anne." 

Mr.  Williams's  tone  dropped  so  suddenly  that  it 
would  have  been  excusable  to  suppose  that  his  previous 
elation  was  due  to  a  slight  over-indulgence  in  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  tables.  "  Where  is  she?  "  he  whispered,  in 
a  voice  of  profound  melancholy,  and  went  on,  without 
waiting  for  an  answer :  "  Hugh,  I  can't  think  that  this 
marriage  will  succeed." 

"  You've  said  that  before,"  replied  Hughximpatiently ; 
"  the  marriage  is  all  right." 


ANNE'S   MARRIAGE  67 

"  No,  Hugh,"  persisted  Mr.  Williams,  swaying 
slightly  on  his  feet  and  attempting  to  flick  off  the  ash 
of  his  cigar  with  his  little  finger,  which  would  not  reach 
far  enough ;  "  the  marriage  is  not  all  right.  If  I  had 
had  an  opportunity  I  should  have  spoken  to  the  Ad- 
mirable— I  mean  the  Admiral — about  it.  I  have  been 
in  this  house  now  two  years,  winter  and  summer,  spring 
and — and  winter,  and  the  whole  time  I  have  been  here 

I  have — I  have I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  say, 

but  you  understand  me,  old  fellow.  We've  always 
been  good  friends,  you  and  I,  and — and  you  know 
what  your  father  is,  always  kind  and  polite,  and  I 
should  have  said  to  him " 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  away,  Mr.  Williams,"  said 
the  boy,  driven  to  exasperation,  though  he  did  not 
realize  that  his  tutor's  wavering  address  was  due  to 
any  other  cause  than  the  state  of  nervous  excitement 
that  embraced  the  whole  household.  "  It's  my  last 
night  with  Anne,  and  I  want  to  speak  to  her  alone." 

Mr.  Williams  regarded  him  with  surprised  dis- 
pleasure. "  You  wish  I  would  go  away,"  he  repeated, 
with  annoying  deliberation,  for  now  Hugh  could  see  the 
flicker  of  Anne's  white  dress  under  the  trees  across 
the  lawn.  "  Do  you  think  that  is  a  gentlemanly  speech 
to  make,  Hugh?  Do  you  think  it  a  kind  speech?  Do 
you  think  if  I  were  to  say  to  the  Admiral —  But 

Hugh  had  broken  away  from  him  and  was  running 
across  the  lawn  towards  Anne.  Mr.  Williams  paused 
for  a  moment  in  astonishment  and  then  made  his  way,  a 
little  unevenly,  in  the  same  direction,  intending  to  say 


68  MANY   JUNES 

a  word  of  farewell  to  Anne  on  his  own  account.  But, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  he  made  foir  the  point  of  the 
drive  at  which  Hugh  had  intercepted  his  sister,  he  found 
when  he  reached  it  that  they  were  already  some  dis- 
tance away,  and,  pausing  again  to  consider  this  phe- 
nomenon, forgot  what  it  was  that  he  intended  to  say, 
and  went  home  to  bed. 

"  Anne,"  said  Hugh  hurriedly,  when  he  reached  her, 
"  I  wish  you  would  do  something  for  me." 

Anne  came  down  from  the  rosy  cloud  in  which  she 
had  been  walking.  "  Of  course  I  will,  dear,"  she  said, 
taking  his  arm  affectionately,  "  that  is — well,  what  do 
you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  wake  me  up  early  tomorrow  morning 
and  come  out  into  the  garden." 

" Oh,  Hugh,  how  can  I?" 

She  spoke  in  surprise,  as  if  what  he  had  suggested 
to  her  was  something  entirely  new  and  unheard  of. 
And  yet,  during  the  past  two  summers,  and  during  this 
spring  and  summer  until  George  had  come,  it  had  been 
their  daily  habit. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  say  good-bye  to  the  old  place?  " 
he  asked.  "  You  are  going  away  from  it  and  you  may 
not  see  it  again  for  years." 

"  But  there  will  be  time.  Why  do  you  want  me  to 
get  up  at  five  o'clock  tomorrow  of  all  days?  " 

Only  her  reference  to  their  old  time  of  rising,  which 
he  had  not  mentioned,  showed  that  she  remembered  the 
hours  they  had  spent  together  in  the  freshness  of  early 
morning.  "  We  have  always  done  it,"  he  said.  "  And 


ANNE'S   MARRIAGE  69 

we  shall  never  do  it  again.  I  have  got  up  at  five  every 
morning  for  the  last  month — Dunster  has  called  me — 
and  you  have  never  come." 

Something  in  his  tone  touched  her.  They  were 
standing  on  the  gravel  sweep  in  front  of  the  house  un- 
der the  stars.  The  flowers  of  a  giant  magnolia  growing 
up  to  the  eaves  scented  the  air.  She  turned  towards 
him  quickly.  "  Oh,  Hugh,"  she  said,  "  have  I  been  so 
selfish,  as  all  that?  And  you  have  missed  me?  I  have 
been  so  happy,  and  everything  has  changed  for  me  so 
completely,  that  I  never  thought  of  it.  Very  well,  I 
will  come.  I  will  call  you  at  five  o'clock,  and  we  will 
do  all  the  things  that  we  used  to  do.  And  now  I  must 
be  going  in,  and  you  must  go  to  bed  too." 

She  kissed  him  lightly,  and  ran  into  the  house.  She 
was  sweet  and  kind,  but  she  had  consented  to  do  what 
he  wished  to  please  him,  not  because  she  desired  it  for 
herself.  He  followed  her  upstairs,  his  heart  still 
heavy. 

He  was  awakened  by  Anne  the  next  morning,  and  as 
she  came  into  his  room  the  clock  on  the  landing  chimed 
the  hour.  The  uncurtained  windows  were  wide  open, 
and  through  them  came  the  breath  of  a  glorious  morn- 
ing. Anne  was  a  little  pale,  but  as  he  roused  himself 
at  her  call  she  seemed  so  exactly  like  the  sister  who 
had  awakened  him  so  many  times  in  the  early  hours 
of  the  summer  day  that  for  the  moment  he  could  not 
believe  that  this  was  not  as  others  of  those  happy; 
mornings. 

"  Be  quick  and  dress,"  she  said.     "  We  have  got  all 


70  MANY   JUNES 

the  chickens  to  feed,  and  there  are  heaps  of  things 
to  see  to,"  and  she  went  out  of  the  room  with  a 
laugh. 

His  sadness  returned  upon  him  as  he  dressed.  After 
all,  would  it  be  worth  it?  He  had  so  counted  on  the 
coming  hours,  w'hen  he  should  once  more  have  his  sister 
back,  the  sister  whom  he  had  already  lost — for  she  had 
never  been  the  same  to  him  since  the  man  to  whom  she 
was  about  to  give  herself  had  come  into  their  lives. 
He  had  thought  that  if  he  could  have  those  few  early 
hours  with  her  once  more,  enjoying  them  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  their  happiness — as  before  he  had  enjoyed 
them  unconsciously — he  would  be  able  to  recapture 
them  better  afterwards,  when  she  had  gone  away  from 
him.  Yes ;  but  not  if  Anne  was  going  to  play  with 
him,  and,  in  children's  language,  pretend.  His  heart 
was  too  heavy  at  the  prospect  of  leaving  her  for  that. 
He  finished  dressing  and  stole  down  the  broad  oak  stair- 
case into  the  silent  hall,  as  he  and  Anne  had  always 
done,  fearing  to  awaken  their  father.  But  he  went  with 
a  strange  sense  of  unreality.  It  was  not  in  the  least 
like  the  opening  of  other  summer  days. 

But  after  all  his  longings  were  fulfilled.  "  We 
won't  feed  the  chickens,"  said  Anne,  when  they  had  shut 
the  hall  door  behind  them  and  stood  in  the  sparkling 
sunlight  of  the  lovely  summer  morning.  "  I  am  too 
tired,  for  one  thing,  for  I  haven't  slept  much.  And, 
besides,  although  I  am  going  to  be  so  happy,  I  do  feel 
leaving  this  dear  old  place,  and  you,  Hugh.  You 
will  be  sorry  to  lose  me  too,  won't  you,  dear?  " 


ANNE'S   MARRIAGE  71 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  She  had  asked  the 
question  as  if  she  really  thought  that  the  answer  could 
be  in  doubt.  Perhaps  she  had  not  thought  much  about 
it  at  all. 

He  turned  away  without  answering  her.  She  had 
changed  indeed  if  she  did  not  know,  without,  telling, 
how  much  he  would  miss  her. 

"  But  I  know  you  will.  Poor  Hugh !  "  she  said. 
"  We  will  go  to  the  log  hut  and  have  a  long  talk  to- 
gether. There  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  say 
to  you." 

They  went  across  the  lawn,  wringing  wet  with  dewv 
Hugh  unmoored  the  punt  where  it  lay  among  yellow 
irises  under  the  silver  birches,  and  pushed  it  across  to- 
the  little  island  on  which  they  had  built  their  hut  two 
summers  before.  Anne  had  often  been  there  with 
George  during  the  past  month,  but  never  with  Hugh. 
The  place  held  memories  for  her  which  made  her  eyes 
shine  as  she  crossed  the  threshold.  But  this  hour  was 
to  be  given  to  her  brother. 

Hugh  regained  what  he  had  lost  as  they  sat  and 
talked,  and  more  besides.  It  seemed  to  him  afterwards 
that  never  had  he  and  Anne  been  so  close  together. 
Always  now  he  would  have  a  share  in  whatever  the 
years  should  bring  her,  for  she  showed  him  some  of 
the  secret  places  in  her  soul,  the  places  she  herself 
had  never  unlocked  until  Love  had  given  her  the  key. 
And  she  showed  that  she  understood  him  too.  She  was 
the  same  Anne  who  had  taken  him  captive  two  years 
before  and  led  him  ever  since,  and  her  new  experiences* 


72  MANY   JUNES 

which  he  had  thought  had  removed  her  for  ever  from 
him,  had  only  seemed  to  deepen  her  sympathy. 

She  soon  made  that  plain.  "  I  am  so  glad,"  she 
said,  "  that  you  asked  me  to  come  out  this  morning, 
Hugh.  You  see,  it  all  came  so  suddenly,  and  I  have 
been  so  taken  out  of  myself,  that  I  have  only  had  time 
to  think  of  one  thing.  But  the  other  things  are  there 
quite  the  same,  and  I  know  that  if  I  had  gone  away 
without  this  last  talk  with  you,  I  should  have  been 
dreadfully  sorry  afterwards.  But  you  won't  think 
now,  when  I  am  gone,  that  I  haven't  got  room  for  you 
in  my  heart,  as  well  as  George,  will  you,  Hugh?  I 
shall  always  be  thinking  of  you,  and  of  the  happy  life 
we  had  here  together  when  I  was  a  girl.  And  you  will 
forgive  me  for  having  been  so  selfish  in  my  happiness? 
I  never  once  thought  of  how  much  it  would  hurt  you; 
but  I  see  it  all  now,  and  if  I  had  been  in  your  place 
I  should  not  have  been  so  patient  as  you  have 
been." 

They  talked  on  and  on,  of  what  both  of  them  would 
do  in  their  changed  lives;  made  a  compact  to  write  to 
each  other  once  a  fortnight,  whatever  befell,  and  spoke 
of  future  meetings.  Hugh's  soreness  was  consoled. 
He  had  not  lost  his  sister  for  ever;  he  had  made  sure 
of  his  place  in  her  heart. 

They  talked  for  two  hours,  sitting  just  inside  the 
hut,  where  they  could  look  across  the  still  waters  of 
the  little  lake  and  the  sloping  lawns  to  the  garden 
front  of  the  old  house.  The  sun  climbed  higher  into 
the  sky.  The  blinds  of  the  house  were  drawn  up  and 


ANNE'S   MARRIAGE  73 

the  smoke  rose  from  the  chimneys.  The  world  was  wak- 
ing up  to  Anne's  wedding  day. 

Their  long  talk  ended  suddenly.  Anne's  face 
changed  and  she  sprang  up  from  her  chair  as  she  saw 
her  lover  coming  down  across  the  lawn  towards  the 
lake.  Hugh  rose  more  slowly.  He  almost  hated 
George  at  that  moment. 

George  did  not  appear  to  be  specially  pleased  with 
Hugh  when  they  had  crossed  over  and  Anne  told  him 
how  long  they  had  been  together. 

'*  Since  five  o'clock ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  look  that 
was  almost  a  frown.  "  How  could  you  have  let  her  tire 
herself  in  that  way  today  ?  " 

Hugh  looked  away  without  answering.  Surely  that 
short  time  need  not  be  grudged  to  him.  And  Anne 
was  used  to  getting  up  at  five  o'clock. 

"  Don't  scold  us,  George,"  said  Anne.  "  We  wanted 
to  have  a  last  long  talk  together,  and  I  should  have  got 
up  anyhow." 

His  face  cleared  as  he  looked  at  her.  "  Sweetheart," 
hfc  said,  "  I  would  have  got  up  too  if  I  had  known." 
Then  he  looked  at  Hugh  and  corrected  himself :  "  But 
you  wouldn't  have  wanted  me." 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  come  here  at  all,  this 
morning,"  said  Anne  gently.  She  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten Hugh,  who  stood  silently  beside  her,  and  had 
eyes  only  for  her  lover. 

George  also  spoke  as  if  none  but  he  and  Anne  were 
there.  "  I  couldn't  keep  away,"  he  said.  "  I  thought 
you  might  be  in  the  garden — and  if  not  I  wanted  to  go 


74  MANY   JUNES 

round  just  once  more  and  look  at  the  place.  We  have 
had  some  of  our  best  times  in  the  old  garden  early  in 
the  morning,  Anne.  Come  round  now.  We  can  keep 
out  of  sight  of  the  house,  and  I'll  steal  away  before 
breakfast."  He  had  hold  of  her  hands  now,  and  was 
looking  into  her  eyes. 

Anne  withdrew  her  hands.  "  No,"  she  said ;  "  I 
am  going  to  be  with  Hugh  until  it  is  time  to  go  in." 

"  We'll  all  three  go,"  said  Hugh  gruffly,  and  was 
glad  afterwards  that  he  had  made  the  effort,  for  dur- 
ing the  half-hour  that  they  were  all  three  together  his 
jealousy  of  the  man  who  was  going  to  take  Anne  away 
from  him  died  down,  and  he  knew  that  his  sister  would 
be  in  safe  keeping.  George  Blomfield  had  a  big  hon- 
est heart,  big  enough,  in  spite  of  the  room  that  Anne 
took  up  in  it,  to  enable  him  to  grasp  the  fact  that  his 
coming  gain  would  be  largely  Hugh's  loss.  He  had 
not  thought  much  about  Hugh  during  the  past  month, 
and  he  was  visited  with  some  compunction  now  that  he 
realized  how  much  the  boy  had  been  pushed  aside  from 
the  place  that  had  been  his.  There  was  not  much 
time  to  make  up  for  that  now,  but  he  did  what  he  could 
to  make  him  feel  that  he  was  not  to  be  elbowed  out 
of  his  place.  Anne,  of  course,  loved  and  admired  him 
all  the  more,  if  that  was  possible,  for  his  kindness  to 
her  brother,  and  Hugh,  when  at  last  he  left  them,  felt 
that  Anne's  choice  was  on  the  whole  justified. 

Hugh  was  much  happier  now,  and  prepared  to  go 
through  the  dreaded  day  with  fortitude.  He  had  never 
assisted  at  a  wedding  before,  but  he  thought  that  no 


ANNE'S   MARRIAGE  75 

bride  could  have  been  more  beautiful  than  Anne  as  she 
went  up  the  church  on  their  father's  arm,  but  he 
changed  his  mind  again  when  she  came  down  on  her 
husband's.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  her  throughout  the 
breakfast  which  followed,  for  the  time  was  slipping  by, 
and  it  was  only  a  matter  of  minutes  now  before  she 
would  be  gone.  He  tried  to  grasp  the  fact,  and  was 
roused  from  his  concentration  of  thought  to  find  him- 
self being  asked  to  make  a  speech.  His  expression  of 
shrinking  terror  saved  him,  and  Mr.  Williams  made 
one  instead,  and  a  very  bad  one. 

And  now  the  time  had  come  for  Anne  to  be  gone. 
She  hung  round  his  neck  at  parting,  and  cried.  They 
were  the  first  tears  he  had  ever  seen  her  shed.  It  was 
all  over  in  a  minute.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face 
as  the  carriage  drove  off,  and  turned  away.  There 
was  a  merry  cheering  crowd  in  the  porch,  but  he  felt 
that  the  house  was  empty. 


CHAPTER   VI 

TROUBLE 

GEOEGE  BLOMFIELD  had  been  rather  surprised,  when 
he  and  the  Admiral  had  discussed  the  financial  aspect 
of  his  marriage,  to  be  told  that  Anne  would  have  the 
income  of  some  money  left  to  her  by  her  mother,  but 
not  the  few  thousand  pounds  of  capital  it  represented ; 
and  also  that  she  would  have  an  allowance  from  her 
father,  but  that  nothing  would  be  settled  on  her.  He 
knew  that  Anne's  little  fortune  should  have  come  to 
her  on  her  marriage — in  fact,  the  Admiral;  had  told 
him  so,  but  said  that  he  could  do  better  with  it  than 
George  could.  He  had  said  nothing  very  definite  be- 
yond this,  treating  the  whole  matter  in  an  offhanded 
way,  and  letting  it  be  understood  that  a  good  deal  of 
money  would  come  to  Anne  by-and-by. 

George  had  made  no  demur  to  the  arrangements  sug- 
gested. He  was  a  little  nervous  on  his  own  account, 
for,  although  he  was  his  father's  only  child,  and  heir 
to  large  tracts  of  land  and  flocks  innumerable,  invested 
money  was  not  at  his  command,  nor  the  prospect  of 
it,  and  in  any  case  there  would  have  been  no  possi- 
bility of  making  proper  settlements  in  the  time  that 
would  elapse  before  the  marriage.  The  Admiral,  on 
his  side,  had  not  asked  for  them,  and  George,  who 

76 


TROUBLE  77 

wanted  nothing  but  Anne  herself,  was  relieved  to  find 
that  money  matters  were  to  prove  no  obstacle  to  his 
happiness. 

"  If  your  whole  income  and  prospects  depend  on  your 
sheep  stations,"  said  the  Admiral,  "  it  is  better  that 
what  Anne  will  have  should  come  out  of  another  basket. 
We  won't  talk  about  settlements  at  all." 

So  Anne  had  left  her  home  undowered,  and  George 
was  glad  to  have  it  so.' 

It  is  possible  that  this  lack  of  formality,  so  unlike 
what  would  have  been  the  usual  proceeding  in  the  case 
of  a  girl  in  Anne's  position,  would  not  have  fallen  out 
so  conveniently  for  her  suitor  had  not  Admiral  Le- 
lacheur  at  this  time  been  seriously  embarrassed.  He 
hardly  yet  knew  it  himself,  but  he  had  been  guilty, 
during  the  past  eighteen  months,  of  one  financial  folly 
after  another,  and,  if  Anne  had  been  marrying  a  man 
who  felt  himself  entitled  to  ask  for  what  was  due  to 
her,  her  father  would  have  found  it  very  difficult  to 
meet  his  demands.  Although,  at  the  time  of  his  pur- 
chase of  Foyle,  he  was  a  well-to-do  and  even  a  rich 
man,  he  had  become  dissatisfied  with  his  income,  and 
now  spent  most  of  his  time  in  watching  his  investments, 
and  conducting  financial  operations  for  which  his  pre- 
vious training  in  life  had  ill  fitted  him.  He  was  an 
elderly  man,  and  had  never  lacked  money  to  indulge 
himself  in  any  taste  he  possessed,  but  for  some  time  past 
he  had  been  dissatisfied  with  his  income  and  desired 
wealth. 

Reference  has  already  been  made  to  an  old  and  un- 


78  MANY  JUNES 

healed  quarrel  between  Admiral  Lelacheur  and  his 
elder  brother.  The  quarrel  had,  indeed,  been  all  on  one 
side,  and  there  had  been  efforts  on  the  other  to  put  an 
end  to  it.  But  the  Admiral's  narrow  obstinate  nature 
allowed  him  neither  to  forgive  nor  forget,  and  he  still 
burned  with  anger,  after  forty  years  of  estrangement, 
when  he  thought  of  his  arrival  at  his  old  home,  to 
find  that  the  brother  over  whom  he  had  always  dom- 
ineered, not  content  with  taking  the  place  which  was 
his  due,  had  put  an  unforgivable  slight  upon  himself. 
Of  course  neither  Sir  Simeon  nor  his  young  wife,  who 
was  anxious  to  propitiate  her  brother-in-law,  had  been 
responsible  for  the  unfortunate  mistake.  There  was 
the  younger  brother's  room  untouched,  with  all  his  boy- 
hood's treasures  in  it,  and  he  only  had  to  walk  in  and 
take  possession  whenever  he  wished.  But  it  was 
among  the  nurseries  and  bedrooms  in  a  part  of  the 
house  occupied  entirely  by  the  family,  and  a  new  house- 
keeper, not  knowing  him,  had  assigned  him  a  room 
among  the  other  guests. 

Explanations  and  apologies  had  failed  to  appease 
his  wrath,  and  he  had  left  the  house  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment,  with  the  intention  of  never  returning 
to  it.  The  statement  made  by  Miss  Wilkinson,  that 
his  annoyance  was  heightened  by  the  meagreness  of  his 
younger  son's  portion,  was  probably  a  gloss  of  her  own. 
His  father  had  been  a  rich  man,  and  had  left  him 
more  money  than,  as  a  younger  son,  he  had  a  right 
to  expect.  Jealousy  had  undoubtedly  prepared  the 
way  for  his  absurd  resentment  over  what  took  place, 


TROUBLE  ,         79 

and  added  fuel  to  it  afterwards,  but  the  presumed  slight 
was  alone  responsible  for  his  anger  and  for  his  life- 
long estrangement  from  his  brother. 

A  man  of  so  crabbed  and  unforgiving  a  nature  as 
this  must  be  the  sport  of  circumstance  in  a  greater 
measure  than  other  men,  and  an  occasion  of  as  little 
moment  as  that  of  forty  years  before,  at  a  time  soon 
after  the  opening  of  our  story,  changed  the  whole 
current  of  what  remained  of  life  to  Admiral  Lela- 
cheur. 

One  day  in  November  he  was  walking  through  Gros- 
venor  Square.  At  the  door  of  one  of  the  largest  of 
those  large  houses  stood  a  carriage,  beautifully  ap- 
pointed, with  two  fine  horses  tossing  their  impatient 
heads.  On  their  harness  was  the  Lelacheur  crest,  and 
on  the  panels  of  the  carriage  the  Lelacheur  coat-of- 
arms.  As  the  Admiral  passed  the  door  an  old  man  and 
an  old  lady  came  out,  attended  by  an  obsequious  foot- 
man with  a  powdered  head,  were  helped  into  the  car- 
riage, and  drove  away.  As  they  passed  the  Admiral 
the  old  man  looked  at  him  without  a  sign  of  recognition, 
and  a  mud  splash,  thrown  up  by  one  of  the  high-step- 
ping horses,  struck  him  on  the  cheek.  His  face  be- 
came purple  with  fury.  He  stood  on  the  pavement  and 
shook  his  fist  at  the  innocent  occupants  of  the  de- 
parting carriage,  much  to  the  surprise  of  the  passers- 
by.  "  Curse  you !  "  he  muttered.  "  Riding  in  state 
and  spattering  a  better  man  than  you  ever  were  or  will 
be ! "  And  from  that  hour  his  one  ambition  was  to 
grow  richer  than  his  brother,  and  to  draw  to  himself 


80  MANY   JUNES 

every  honour  that  was  connected  with  the  name  of 
Lelacheur. 

And  so,  in  pursuit  of  this  will-o'-the-wisp,  the  fine  old 
seaman — for  he  had  fine  qualities  in  spite  of  his  in- 
sensate obstinacy  and  churlishness — immersed  himself 
in  the  movements  of  stocks  and  shares,  in  contangos 
and  backwardations,  and  read  scarcely  anything  but 
the  financial  papers.  There  was  hardly  a  wildcat 
scheme  afloat  in  the  city  but  Admiral  Lelacheur's 
name  was  connected  with  it.  No  promises  of  gain  were 
so  wild  but  he  was  gulled  by  them,  and  no  reverses  so 
great  but  he  was  ready  to  throw  more  money  after 
what  he  had  lost.  By  the  time  that  Anne  was  married 
he  was  in  difficulties,  but  his  hopes  were  still  high, 
and  he  looked  forward  confidently  to  making  up  for 
all  his  losses,  and  achieving  his  ends,  by  further  spec- 
ulations. 

After  Anne's  departure  Hugh  settled  down  to  a  life 
at  Foyle  duller  and  more  empty  even  than  his  forebod- 
ings had  pictured  it.  All  the  brightness  of  his  life 
had  gone  with  her,  and  he  could  take  no  pleasure  in 
any  of  his  former  pursuits.  A  month  of  incessant  rain 
set  in  on  the  day  after  the  wedding,  and  the  burning 
August  which  followed  it  afforded  no  relief  to  his  heavy 
depression.  Late  summer  in  the  country  gives  pleasure 
only  to  happy  people.  The  time  of  expectancy  is  over, 
the  year  gathering  itself  for  its  fall.  The  still,  golden 
weather  of  autumn,  with  its  dewy  dawns  and  fresh 
liquid  eves,  holds  an  illusive  likeness  to  the  springtime, 
and  slow  decay,  cloaked  in  so  much  beauty,  weighs  less 


TROUBLE  81 

on  the  spirits  than  monotonous  fruition.  Hugh  grew  to 
hate  those  August  days  of  hot  sunshine,  following  one 
after  the  other  with  no  break  of  cloud  or  coolness. 
With  Anne  they  would  have  been  delightful,  but  Anne 
was  on  the  sea,  steaming  farther  and  farther  away 
from  him,  and  each  day  that  passed  was  as  dull  and 
lonely  as  the  one  before.  Mr.  Williams  had  gone 
away  for  a  month's  holiday,  and  even  the  small  solace 
of  that  companionship  was  denied  him.  His  father  was 
now  almost  always  away.  Since  Anne  had  gone  he 
had  reduced  the  number  of  servants  at  Foyle  and  taken 
Dunster  to  look  after  him  in  London.  Hugh  had 
scarcely  any  one  to  talk  to  from  morning  till  night,  and 
if  it  had  not  been  for  his  work  his  loneliness  would  have 
rendered  him  so  unhappy  as  to  have  endangered  his 
health. 

He  was  not  supposed  to  be  working  through  that 
month  of  August:  it  was  his  holiday.  But  his  father 
had  not  thought  of  taking  any  steps  to  make  it  a  real 
holiday  for  him,  and  after  a  week  of  mooning  aimlessly 
about,  becoming  more  and  more  dejected  as  the  days 
went  by,  he  took  to  his  books  again,  and,  even  after 
the  first  few  hours  of  reading,  felt  better.  Now  he  had 
discovered  a  way  of  escape  from  the  worst  of  his  lone- 
liness. He  had  a  definite  aim  in  his  reading,  for  it  had 
been  settled  that  he  was  to  go  to  Cambridge  in  October 
instead  of  a  year  later,  and  he  had  to  face  the  entrance 
examination  for  Trinity  College  at  the  beginning  of 
the  month.  He  mapped  out  his  day  into  regular  hours 
of  work  and  exercise,  and  kept  to  his  arrangements  until 


82  MANY  JUNES 

his  tutor's  return.  So  the  days  went  by  somehow,  and 
in  September  the  Admiral  came  down  for  a  week  to 
shoot  his  partridges,  and  made  more  of  a  companion 
of  his  son  than  before,  even  giving  him  a  gun  and  a 
game  licence,  and  allowing  him  to  tramp  the  stubbles 
with  himself  and  Dunster  and  the  keeper.  Hugh  liked 
to  think  afterwards  that  his  father  saw  how  much  he 
missed  Anne  and  tried  in  some  measure  to  make  up  to 
him  for  her  loss.  It  was  little  enough  that  he  did,  but 
in  later  years,  in  thinking  of  his  father,  Hugh's  mind 
went  back  to  that  week  in  September  when  he  was 
kind  to  him. 

The  time  of  preparation  came  to  an  end,  and  when 
he  went  up  for  his  examination  at  the  beginning  of 
October  Mr.  Williams  told  him  that  he  was  certain 
to  do  well,  and,  if  he  worked  as  steadily  at  Cambridge 
as  he  had  done  at  Foyle,  might  look  forward  to  taking 
a  good  degree.  Hugh  said  good-bye  to  his  tutor, 
cheered  by  his  encouragement,  but  without  any  disturb- 
ing sensation  of  loss.  Except  that  the  flavour  of  the 
happy  by-gone  days  hung  about  Mr.  Williams  in  some 
small  degree,  he  was  not  a  regretted  concomitant  of 
his  pupil's  life. 

Mr.  Williams  had  altered  since  his  return  from  his 
holidays,  which  he  had  spent  partly  in  his  native  town 
of  Huddersfield  and  partly  amid  the  delights  of  Scar- 
borough. He  still  paid  the  closest  attention  to  his 
work  with  Hugh — his  diligence  and  conscientiousness 
were  his  best  points — but  outside  the  reading  hours  he 
insisted  more  than  before  on  his  own  dignity,  showed 


TROUBLE  83 

that  he  thought  highly  of  himself,  and  demanded  an 
irksome  degree  of  deference  from  his  pupil.  Even  in 
the  Admiral's  presence  he  showed  signs  of  pushing  him- 
self and  his  opinions  forward,  but  that  ceased  after  a 
pair  of  bushy  white  eyebrows  had  been  bent  on  him  in 
surprise,  and  it  was  only  when  alone  with  Hugh  that 
he  allowed  the  sense  of  his  importance  to  appear.  It 
seemed  that  tutoring  or  schoolmastering  of  any  de- 
scription was  a  poor  sort  of  life  for  a  man  who  was 
a  gentleman,  and  Mr.  Williams  would  have  none  of  it 
in  the  future.  He  hinted  at  coming  wealth  and  dig- 
nity, but  Hugh  was  not  enough  interested  in  him  to 
ask  how  he  was  going  to  acquire  those  gifts.  The 
secret  came  out  a  few  months  later,  when  he  wrote  from 
Huddersfield  to  announce  his  coming  marriage  with  a 
lady  whom  he  had  known  since  his  childhood.  That  he 
had  not  known  her  since  her  own  was  owing  to  the 
fact  that  her  childhood  had  ceased  some  years  before 
his  had  begun.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  large  iron- 
monger, and  had  been  captivated  by  Mr.  Williams's 
luxuriant  hair  and  his  ornamental  manners.  We  take 
leave  of  him  in  a  large  provincial  house  exuding  crea- 
ture comforts,  a  figure  in  the  society  attendant  upon 
his  wife. 

Hugh  stayed  one  or  two  days  at  Cambridge,  and 
enjoyed  the  foretaste  of  his  coming  life  more  than  he 
had  thought  possible.  Term  had  not  yet  commenced, 
and  he  was  assigned  rooms  in  the  Great  Court  of 
Trinity,  within  hearing  of  the  bells  on  the  chapel  turret 
and  the  plash  of  the  fountain.  He  dined  in  hall,  and 


84  MANY   JUNES 

made  friends  with  a  few  of  the  budding  undergraduates 
who  were  undergoing  the  entrance  examination  with 
him.  His  spirits,  depressed  by  the  solitary  life  he  had 
led  during  the  past  three  months,  revived,  and  for  the 
first  tune  since  Anne's  wedding  he  took  pleasure  in 
the  thought  of  his  life  apart  from  hers.  In  his  spare 
time  he  wandered  about  the  courts  of  the  college  and 
the  streets  and  avenues  of  the  town,  alone  or  in  com- 
pany, or  sat  and  talked  in  his  own  rooms  or  those  of 
his  fellows,  and  came  to  look  forward  with  some  eager- 
ness to  the  time  when  he  would  wear  the  blue  gown 
of  Trinity  and  share  the  life  of  the  many  men  of  his  own 
age  who  would  presently  throng  the  now  half -deserted 
streets  and  courts.  Before  he  left  Cambridge  for  his 
father's  rooms  in  London,  where  he  was  to  stay  until 
he  came  up  to  Cambridge  an  admitted  member  of  the 
great  society  of  Trinity,  he  saw  his  name  on  the  screens 
as  having  passed  his  entrance  examination,  and  heard 
from  his  tutor  that  he  had  passed  with  credit.  As  he 
travelled  to  London  he  was  happy,  even  eager,  in  an- 
ticipation of  his  new  life,  and  he  thought  of  what  a 
lot  he  would  have  to  tell  Anne  when  he  wrote  to  her  by 
the  mail  on  the  following  day. 

He  drove  through  the  foggy  London  streets  to  his 
father's  rooms  just  off  St.  James's,  and,  having  ar- 
rived there,  found  all  his  bright  anticipations  for  the 
time  obscured,  for  Dunster  met  him  with  a  grave 
face  and  told  him  that  his  father  had  had  a 
stroke  and  was  lying  unconscious  in  his  room  up- 
stairs. 


TROUBLE  85 

The  shock  he  received  on  hearing  this  news  was  great. 
He  was  young,  and  had  no  experience  of  the  shadow  of 
death.  And  he  had  seen  his  father  two  days  before, 
a  hale  man  as  he  had  always  known  him,  hardly  to  be 
considered  old  in  his  healthy  well-preserved  vigour. 
But  when  he  heard  that  such  a  seizure  as  he  had  sus- 
tained was  not  necessarily  fatal,  and  that  the  doctors 
expected  him  to  recover,  his  mind  resumed  its  normal 
tone.  He  had  seen  but  little  of  his  father,  even  dur- 
ing the  two  years  he  had  lived  at  home,  and  had  re- 
ceived few  tokens  of  affection  from  him,  and  his  own  life 
was  before  him,  now  about  to  take  on  brighter  tones 
than  he  had  thought  would  colour  it. 

But  as  the  evening  wore  on  and  he  sat  in  the  sitting- 
room,  divided  only  from  the  room  where  his  father  lay 
by  folding  doors,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  talking  in 
whispers  to  Dunster,  who  came  in  and  out  at  intervals, 
a  shadow  stole  over  him,  and  deepened.  Dunster  im- 
pressed upon  him  that  the  Admiral  would  probably  re- 
cover, but  his  usually  cheerful  face  was  gloomy,  and  his 
own  confident  speech  failed  to  lighten  it.  He  showed 
more  foreboding  than  was  natural,  if  his  words  were 
to  be  believed. 

At  first  Hugh's  creeping  fear  only  pointed  to  a  fatal 
ending  to  his  father's  illness,  but  when  he  taxed  Dunster 
with  trying  to  deceive  him  with  smooth  words  he  was 
met  with  reiterated  assurances  of  an  almost  certain  re- 
covery. "  Indeed,  I'm  telling  you  the  truth,  sir,"  he 
said  earnestly,  "  I've  seen  this  happen  before,  and  I 
don't  fear  for  the  Admiral's  life,  not  this  time  at  any 


86  MANY   JUNES 

rate.  And  there's  no  reason  why  it  should  come  back, 
not  if  he  takes  care  of  himself  and  lives  a  quiet  life 
without  worries.  Don't  you  fret  about  that,  Master 
Hugh.  There's  two  doctors  been  to  see  him,  and  they 
both  say  he'll  get  over  this." 

Then  what  meant  this  ever-deepening  shadow,  and 
Dunster's  anxious  manner,  opposed  to  his  confident 
speech?  Hugh  asked  him  again  as  he  was  going  to 
bed,  when  Dunster  had  come  into  his  room.  They 
could  speak  freely  here  and  not  in  whispers.  "  What 
is  there  behind  this  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  are  keeping 
something  back  from  me.  If  he  is  going  to  get  better, 
why  do  you  look  as  you  do  ?  "| 

Dunster  prevaricated  volubly.  He  had  been  with 
the  Admiral,  man  and  boy,  for  over  thirty  years.  He 
had  been  a  good  master  to  him,  and  he  was  knocked 
over  by  what  had  happened. 

Hugh  watched  him  narrowly.  "  That  is  not  all,"  he 
said,  when  he  had  finished.  "  I'm  a  man  now,  and  I 
can  stand  anything  that  you  may  have  to  tell  me.  I 
want  to  know.  What  are  you  keeping  back?  What 
brought  on  this  stroke?  Yes,  that  is  it.  I  suppose 
something  must  happen  to  bring  on  a  stroke.  What 
brought  on  father's  ?  "  ». 

Dunster  looked  at  him  and  gave  way  before  the 
command  in  his  tone  and  manner.  "  I'm  very  much 
afraid,  Master  Hugh,"  he  said,  "  that  the  Admiral  has 
had  a  serious  money  loss.  His  solicitor,  Mr.  Burham, 
was  with  him  when  it  happened.  They'd  been  together 
an  hour  or  more,  and  when  he  called  out — Mr.  Bur- 


TROUBLE  87 

ham,  I  mean — and  I  came  in  to  him,  he  said :  *  He  would 
know  everything,  and  I  had  to  tell  him  the  worst.'  He 
was  very  upset,  poor  gentleman,  but  it  wasn't  his  fault." 

"  Then  you  think  my  father  has  lost  all  his  money  ?  " 
said  Hugh  slowly. 

"  Oh !  Master  Hugh,  I  didn't  say  that.  I  hope  not, 
indeed  I  do.  But  it's  been  going  on  a  long  time.  I've 
seen  it  coming  and " 

"  What  has  been  going  on  a  long  time?  " 

"  Speculating,  and  trying  to  make  a  lot  of  money 
when  there  was  plenty  before.  At  first  I  thought  it 
was  all  right.  I  could  not  believe  the  Admiral  could 
go  wrong  or  make  mistakes.  I  gave  him  every  bit  of 
my  savings  to  handle  for  me — not  that  I'll  say  a  word 
about  that,  poor  gentleman,  if  it  turns  out  he's  lost — 
.it's  him  I'm  thinking  of.  I've  seen  how  it  was  for  some 
time.  A  better  officer  never  breathed — he  was  won- 
derful in  manoeuvres  and  suchlike,  all  the  service  knew 
it,  and  why  he  retired  when  he  did  I  don't  know.  And 
I've  been  in  action  with  him  too,  and  seen  the  stuff  he's 
made  of.  But  amongst  them  sharks  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change he  was  no  better  than  a  baby,  and  it's  my  fear 
that  they've  fleeced  him  bare,  and  him  an  old  man  with 
his  life  behind  him !  " 

The  honest  fellow  was  moved  almost  to  tears.  He 
had  faithfully  served  his  master  for  many  years,  and 
perhaps  he  had  grown  to  love  him,  a  man  who  had 
small  power  of  arousing  affection. 

"  But  don't  you  think  too  much  about  what  I've  been 
saying,  Mr.  Hugh,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  leave  the 


88  MANY   JUNES 

room.  "  I  may  be  wrong,  and  I  hope  to  God  I  am, 
and  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  anything  till  I  knew  for 
certain.  Mr.  Burham  is  coming  again  in  the  morning 
and  he'll  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know." 

With  this  consolation  ended  Hugh's  day  of  hope. 


CHAPTER   VII 

SETTLEMENT 

HUGH  awoke  next  morning  to  hear  the  clock  on  the 
gateway  of  St.  James's  Palace  chime  the  hour,  thought 
for  a  moment  it  was  the  clock  in  the  Great  Court  of 
Trinity,  and  was  for  that  moment  content.  Then  the 
memory  of  what  had  happened  since  he  left  Cambridge, 
and  of  where  he  was,  loomed  up,  and  the  shadow  crept 
over  him  once  more. 

It  was  eight  o'clock,  and  Dunster  came  into  his 
room.  His  father  was  still  unconscious,  he  said,  but  he 
was  no  worse.  Almost  certainly,  if  he  had  no  further 
shock,  he  would  recover. 

Hugh  got  up  and  dressed.  He  breakfasted  in  his 
father's  sitting-room,  with  the  muffled  sounds  of  the 
sickroom  in  his  ears.  It  had  not  been  suggested  to  him 
that  he  should  see  his  father,  and  he  had  not  asked 
to  do  so.  Dunster  brought  him  a  morning  paper  and 
pointed  out  to  him  a  paragraph  about  Admiral 
Lelacheur's  illness. 

"  How  did  it  get  in?  "  asked  Hugh. 

Dunster  cast  a  half-glance  towards  the  folding  doors. 
"  I  sent  it,"  he  whispered.  "  I  didn't  dare  write  to 
your  uncle,  Sir  Simeon,  but  I  thought  he  might 
see." 

Hugh  was  about  to  ask  him  why  he  should  want 
89 


90  MANY  JUNES 

Sir  Simeon  to  know,  but  the  arrival  of  the  doctor  cut 
short  his  question. 

The  doctor,  coming  into  the  sitting-room  after  visit- 
ing his  patient  and  shaking  hands  with  Hugh,  was  cheer- 
ful and  encouraging.  "  Don't  stay  moping  indoors," 
he  said,  noticing  Hugh's  solemn  face.  "  Go  about  and 
amuse  yourself.  There's  nothing  to  be  alarmed  about. 
Quite  an  ordinary  seizure,  and  he'll  be  about  again  in 
a  week  or  two,  as  hearty  as  ever." 

Anxiety  on  behalf  of  his  father's  life  left  him.  Every 
one  said  that  alarm  was  needless.  But  the  shadow  did 
'not  lift  from  his  mind. 

The  lawyer  came  at  ten  o'clock.  He  was  an  elderly 
keen-faced  man,  and  came  into  the  room  with  something 
of  the  same  cheerful  morning  air  as  the  doctor.  But 
it  soon  became  plain  that  his  cheerfulness  was  only  the 
sign  of  the  hour,  and  betokened  nothing  that  he  had  to 
tell.  It  vanished  when  he  sat  down  at  the  table  with 
Hugh. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  no  good  news  to  tell  you,"  he 
said,  paying  the  compliment  of  straightforwardness  to 
Hugh's  serious  and  collected  manner.  "  It  is  a  smash, 
a  very  bad  smash  indeed,  and  it  is  as  much  as  we  shall 
do  to  get  out  of  it  on  the  right  side." 

Hugh  had  never  had  anything  to  do  with  money.  He 
had  never  had  more  than  a  sovereign  of  his  own  to  spend 
at  one  time  in  all  his  life.  If  the  lawyer  had  gone  into 
figures  with  him  he  would  not  have  understood  him. 

"  You  are  not  of  age,  are  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Burham. 

"  I  shall  be  nineteen  next  April,"  said  Hugh. 


SETTLEMENT  91 

"  Well,  then,  certain  details  which  you  will  have  to 
know  may  keep  until  your  father  recovers,  which  I  am 
glad  to  hear  he  is  likely  to  do.  Still,  in  an  illness  like 
his  there  is  no  certainty,  and  Dunster,  whom  I  know 
for  an  old  and  faithful  servant,  has  asked  me  not  to 
keep  you  ignorant  of  what  has  happened." 

"  I  hope  you  will  tell  me  everything,"  said  Hugh. 
**  I  would  rather  know  the  worst." 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you  the  worst  at  once.  Your 
father's — er — investments  have  turned  out  wrong,  very 
wrong  indeed,  and  from  being  a  man  of  some  wealth  he 
will  now  be  a  poor  man.  I  have  feared  that  he  would 
lose  his  money  for  some  time  past,  and  have  warned  him, 
but  he  would  not  take  my  warning,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  certainty  came  home  to  him  that  he  realized  the 
way  he  had  been  going.  As  you  know,  the  shock  was 
too  much  for  him,  and  I  was,  unfortunately,  the  means 
of  bringing  it  on." 

"  You  couldn't  help  that,"  said  Hugh  awkwardly. 

"  No,  I  could  not  help  it.  I  have  known  Admiral 
Lelacheur  for  many  years,  and  liked  him,  but  he  was 
not  a  man  to  advise  against  his  will." 

"  He  has  lost  all  his  money?  "  said  Hugh. 

"  It  is  not  possible  to  say  yet  exactly  how  he  stands. 
But  you  must  be  prepared  for  a  great  change  in  your 
life.  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  warn  you  of.  You  must 
not  expect  that  you  will  be  able  to  go  on  living  at 
Foyje." 

Hugh  had  not  thought  much  of  Foyle.  With  Anne's 
marriage  its  chief  delight  had  departed.  But  the  news 


92  MANY   JUNES 

that  Foyle  would  no  longer  be  his  home  caused  him  a 
pang. 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  said.  "  Shall  I  be  able  to  go 
to  Cambridge?  " 

"  I  heard  that  you  had  gone  up  to  matriculate.  You 
have  not  got  a  scholarship  ?  " 

"  No." 

Mr.  Burham  hesitated.  "  I  cannot  say  anything 
about  that,"  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  not 
be  able  to  go  to  Cambridge  until  your  father  is  better 
and  it  is  possible  to  settle  his  affairs  with  him.  Then 
let  us  hope  that  you  may,  if  you  wish  to.  Now  tell  me 
this.  Have  you  ever  seen  your  uncle,  Sir  Simeon 
Lelacheur?  " 

"Oh  no.  He  and  father  were  not  friends.  He 
never  mentioned  his  name  to  us — to  me  or  my 
sister." 

"  I  knew  that  they  quarrelled  many  years  ago.  It 
was  then  that  Admiral  Lelacheur  put  his  affairs  into 
the  hands  of  my  firm.  But  I  thought  that,  perhaps, 

now Could  you  write  to  your  uncle  and  give  him 

an  idea  of  what  has  happened?  " 

"  Oh  no.  Father  would  be  very  angry  if  he  knew 
of  it." 

"  I'm  afraid  he  would.  I'm  afraid  he  would.  Well,  I 
couldn't  take  the  responsibility  of  doing  it  myself." 
He  sat  thinking  for  some  time.  *'  Have  you  any  other 
relations?  "  he  asked.  "  Any  one  to  whom  you  could  go 
until  your  father  is  better  and  we  can  see  how  things 
stand?  " 


SETTLEMENT  93 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  leave  my  father,  and  I  have  no 
other  relations  except  my  aunt,  Miss  Wilkinson." 

The  lawyer's  face  clouded.  "  Perhaps  you  had  better 
stay  here  then,"  he  said,  rather  shortly.  Then  his 
face  became  kind  again  as  he  prepared  to  take  his 
leave.  "  I  am  very  sorry  for  your  sake  that  this  has 
happened,"  he  said.  "  It  will  make  a  difference  to  your 
life.  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  see  much  hope  of  Cambridge 
for  you.  It  is  better  that  you  should  not  buoy  yourself 
up  with  false  hopes.  My  own  way  is  to  take  the  worst 
and  build  upon  that.  Then  it  is  seldom  so  bad  as  you 
anticipate.  Good-bye,  and  do  not  lose  hope  altogether." 

With  this  somewhat  contradictory  advice,  Mr.  Bur- 
ham  shook  hands  and  departed,  leaving  on  Hugh's  mind 
the  impression  which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  least 
likely  to  increase  his  disappointment  in  the  future.  He 
sat  by  the  fire  for  some  time  and  then  went  out  and 
walked  for  an  hour  about  the  streets,  not  knowing 
where  to  go,  or  what  to  do  with  himself,  either  now 
or  in  the  future. 

When  he  returned  to  the  house  Dunster  met  him 
with  a  more  cheerful  face.  His  father  had  regained 
consciousness,  but  he  could  not  speak ;  and  on  one  side 
he  was  paralysed.  Hugh,  with  some  shrinking,  asked 
if  he  might  go  in  to  him,  but  Dunster  said,  with  a  look 
of  concern:  "  Don't  you  go  to  him  just  yet,  Mr.  Hugh. 
Please  God  he'll  get  quite  well,  but  his!  poor  face  is 
all  drawn,  and  you  wouldn't  take  him  for  the  man  he  is." 

Hugh  suddenly  remembered  that  it  was  mail  day, 
and  he  had  not  yet  written  to  Anne.  On  the  day  before, 


94-  MANY   JUNES 

he  had  looked  forward  to  telling  her  all  his  good  news. 
It  was  very  different  news  he  had  to  tell  her  now.  He 
said  nothing  about  what  had  happened  before  his 
father's  illness,  except  that  he  had  been  to  Cambridge, 
and  passed  his  entrance  examination.  "  But  I  am 
afraid,"  he  added,  "  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  go  up 
to  Cambridge  now."  And  this  was  all  the  mention  he 
made  of  his  father's  losses,  for  he  would  not  give  her 
all  the  bad  news  at  once.  His  letter  was  bald  and  short, 
very  different  from  the  letters  he  had  written  to  her 
every  fortnight  since  she  had  left  home ;  but  there  was 
very  little  to  say,  since  he  was  keeping  so  much  back, 
and  although  he  tried  to  write  as  intimately  as  she 
would  expect  him  to  write,  he  could  not,  and  sealed  up 
his  letter  feeling  very  dissatisfied  with  it,  and  himself. 

As  he  did  so  Duhster  came  into  the  room  with  an 
air  of  some  excitement,  and  announced  importantly,  but 
in  a  low  voice :  "  Sir  Simeon  Lelacheur."  He  was  fol- 
lowed into  the  room  by  a  thin  old  man,  who  stooped,  and 
supported  himself  with  a  stick.  He  had  very  white 
hair  and  the  kindest  expression  of  face.  He  shook 
hands  with  Hugh,  and  murmured  some  expression  of 
sympathy,  of  which  Hugh  did  not  catch  the  words. 
Then  he  sat  down  on  the  chair  that  Dunster  set  for 
him,  and  loosened  his  coat,  and  the  white  silk  scarf 
round  his  neck,  looking  at  Hugh  out  of  a  pair  of  con- 
cerned, blue  eyes,  while  Dunster  left  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  quietly  behind  him. 

Hugh  hardly  knew  what  to  say  or  do.  He  had  a 
feeling  of  intense  discomfort  at  the  thought  of  his 


SETTLEMENT  95 

father  lying  just  beyond  the  thin  wooden  partition,  and 
an  instinctive  fear  lest  he  should  hear  the  voice  of  his 
arch-enemy  and  burst  the  bonds  of  affliction  to  denounce 
him.  He  had  never  seen  his  uncle  before.  There  was 
a  great  likeness  to  his  father,  although  his  timid  air 
of  kindness  and  courtesy  was  the  antithesis  to  the 
Admiral's  manner.  Hugh  had  once  looked  up  his  family 
in  a  book  of  reference  and  learnt  that  Sir  Simeon  was 
only  a  year  older  than  the  Admiral.  He  looked  ten 
years  older  as  he  sat  opposite  to  him,  bowed  and 
nervous,  with  thin  fleshless  hands  fumbling  at  the  collar 
of  his  overcoat,  but  always  with  that  deeply  concerned 
kind  gaze.  It  was  some  little  time  before  he  spoke, 
and,  when  he  did,  he  spoke  almost  in  a  whisper,  and 
Hugh  had  difficulty  in  catching  his  words.  He,  also, 
glanced  towards  the  folding  doors,  as  if  he  feared  that 
the  brother  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  forty  years  would 
come  in  and  find  him  there. 

"  This  is  very  sad,"  he  said.  "  Your  father's  servant 
tells  me  that  there  is  trouble  behind  it,  and  that  there 
is  no  one  to  help  straighten  things  out." 

Hugh  did  not  know  what  to  answer.  "  Mr.  Burham 
was  here  this  morning,"  he  said  awkwardly — "  father's 
solicitor." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  anything?  " 

"  He  told  me  that  father  had  lost  all  his  money." 

To  Hugh's  surprise  a  look  of  gratification  came 
into  the  old  man's  face.  "  Then  that  may  bring  us 
together  again,"  he  said.  "  He  has  only  to  come  to 
me.  No,  I  will  come  to  him,  and  we  shall  be  friends 


96  MANY  JUNES 

again  at  last.  We  were  great  friends  as  boys,  and  I 
have  not  ceased  to  miss  him  all  these  years.  Has  he 
ever  talked  to  you  about — about  the  old  days  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Hugh. 

The  old  man  looked  disappointed.  "  I  have  talked  of 
him  to  my  son,"  he  said,  "  a  grown  man  now — older 
than  you.  How  old  are  you,  and  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

Hugh  told  him.  He  was  strangely  moved.  This 
weak  old  man,  so  like  and  so  unlike  his  father,  seemed  to 
draw  from  him  something  of  the  feelings  he  would  have 
had  towards  his  own  father,  if  any  consideration  or 
affection  had  called  them  forth.  He  found  himself 
telling  him  everything,  his  father's  disappointment  at 
his  failure  to  enter  the  navy,  his  life  at  Foyle  with 
Anne,  Anne's  marriage,  his  loneliness,  and  his  own  dis- 
appointment at  the  downfall  of  his  hopes  of  Cambridge, 
which  had  been  so  nearly  within  his  grasp;  and  his 
uncle  listened  with  little  nods  and  murmurs  of  sympathy, 
and  a  question  every  now  and  then  to  keep  the  stream 
of  his  disclosures  flowing.  And  he  asked  questions 
about  Hugh's  father,  as  one  might  ask  a  stranger  from 
a  distant  country  about  some  one  whose  memory  was 
dear,  but  from  whom  one  had  been  parted  for  very 
long,  trying  to  create  a  picture  in  the  mind  of  a  face, 
a  trick  of  manner,  or  a  word. 

He  put  his  thin  old  hand  upon  Hugh's  as  it  lay  on 
the  table.  "  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "  you  shall  go 
to  Cambridge.  And  do  not  distress  yourself  about  your 
father.  He  will  forget  all  the  unhappy  years  of  separa- 
tion when  he  comes  to  himself,  and  any  difficulties  he  may 


SETTLEMENT  97 

have  to  face  will  be  taken  from  his  shoulders.  He  will 
not  refuse  help  from  his  only  brother.  I  do  not  know 
the  details  of  his  losses,  but  he  cannot  have  been  to 
blame  for  them  himself.  He  was  always  a  strong  man ; 
and  see  what  he  has  done  for  his  country!  We  are 
all  proud  of  him,  and  the  time  is  coming  when  we  can 
tell  him  so." 

Much  more  he  said  in  the  same  strain  before  he  went 
away,  leaving  Hugh  comforted,  and  astonished  at  the 
noble  sweetness  of  his  character.  The  quarrel  which 
he  had  deplored  for  forty  years  he  had  not  mentioned 
except  as  the  unhappy  cause  of  the  long  estrangement. 
He  had  taken  no  blame  for  it,  neither  had  he  sought  to 
justify  himself.  He  had  spoken  no  word  about  forgive- 
ness, he  had  simply  wanted  it  all  ended  and  forgotten. 
And  this  was  the  man  whom  Hugh's  father  had  re- 
garded with  such  stubborn  rancour  that  he  had  never 
mentioned  his  name  to  his  children.  There  was  time 
for  a  postscript  to  his  letter  to  Anne,  and  when  it  was 
written  it  was  twice  as  long  as  the  original  letter,  and 
told  her  everything. 

He  ate  his  dinner  and  talked  cheerfully  to  Dunster 
afterwards.  Both  of  them  felt  that  the  shadow  was 
lifted,  and  Sir  Simeon's  name  was  extolled  between 
them.  Hugh  went  to  bed  almost  happy. 

He  saw  his  father  the  next  morning.  The  Admiral 
lay  helpless,  his  face  all  dragged  to  one  side,  but  with 
the  old  authoritative  indomitable  look  in  his  eyes.  He 
spoke  with  difficulty,  but  he  was  determined  to  speak, 
and  the  words  came  slowly  and  with  painful  pauses  and 


98  MANY  JUNES 

/ 
searchings,  but  there  was  no  doubt  of  their  meaning. 

Everything  was  gone  but  the  honour  of  his  name,  and 
he  trusted  his  son  to  help  him  to  preserve  that.  Cam- 
bridge was  out  of  the  question  now.  He  must  work, 
and  he  must  set  about  it  at  once. 

The  Admiral's  mind  was  clear.  He  remembered 
everything  that  had  led  up  to  his  seizure."  Beneath  the 
disfigurement  of  his  face  lay  a  deeper  disfigurement. 
There  was  nothing  but  trouble  and  sorrow  before  him 
for  the  rest  of  his  days,  and  he  had  brought  trouble 
and  sorrow  upon  others  beside  himself.  He  knew  it  all, 
and  the  knowledge  had  seared  his  soul. 

Hugh  listened  to  him  in  an  agony  of  doubt  and 
bewilderment.  He  longed  to  tell  him  that  his  troubles 
would  not  be  allowed  to  oppress  him,  that  the  kindest 
of  friends  was  waiting  to  lift  his  burdens  from  him, 
longing  for  reconciliation.  But  he  did  not  dare  to  do 
so,  and,  as  he  stood  by  the  bedside  and  listened  to  the 
painful  speech,  more  painful  almost  than  he  could  bear 
in  its  insistent  hopelessness,  the  thought  came  to  him 
that  he  never  would  dare,  that  this  new  hope  that  had 
buoyed  him  and  lightened  his  spirits  was  destined,  like 
his  other  hopes,  to  fade,  and  leave  him  to  face  a  life 
stripped  of  all  comfort. 

It  was  Dunster  who  told  the  Admiral  a  few  days  later 
of  his  brother's  visits.  He  had  tact  and  courage,  and 
he  knew  his  master  as  no  one  else  knew  him.  But 
even  he  had  never  gauged  the  depth  of  crabbed  obstinacy 
that  conquered  every  softer  impulse  in  the  Admiral's 
soul.  When  he  heard  that  Sir  Simeon  had  been  two 


SETTLEMENT  99 

or  three  times  to  inquire  for  him,  which  was  all  that 
Dunster  told  him  at  first,  he  broke  into  a  passion  that 
caused  the  faithful  servant  serious  alarm.  How  dare 
he  admit  him  to  the  house?  If  he  ever  did  such  a  thing: 
again  he  would  be  dismissed  without  warning.  The 
insolence  of  it !  Coming  to  gloat  over  him  when  he  was 
lying  helpless,  and  unable  to  give  him  the  treatment  he 
deserved!  Sorry  for  his  illness?  A  soft-headed  fool 
without  any  brains  might  believe  that.  Dunster  might 
believe  what  he  liked,  but  if  he  disobeyed  orders  again 
he  knew  what  would  happen  to  him.  It  was  long  before 
he  was  quieted,  and  Dunster  had  a  night  of  anxiety, 
fearing  another  attack  at  any  time. 

He  told  Hugh  of  his  ill-success,  and  Hugh  went  to 
his  uncle's  hotel  at  once.  Sir  Simeon  had  come  up  to 
London  alone  from  the  country  when  he  had  read  of  his 
brother's  illness,  and  the  house  in  Grosvenor  Square 
which  had  so  aroused  the  Admiral's  ire  was  shut  up. 
When  Hugh  had  told  him  what  he  had  to  tell,  and  left 
him,  with  the  memory  of  the  tenderest  kindness  and 
sympathy  to  carry  into  the  dark  days  to  come,  Sir 
Simeon  went  back  to  Suffolk,  sad  at  heart,  but  hoping 
still  that  he  might  be  able  to  do  something  for  his 
brother's  son.  With  his  brother  himself  he  now  gave 
up  all  hopes  of  reconciliation. 

It  was  not  until  later,  when  the  Admiral  had  re- 
covered his  mental  powers  and  was  beginning  to  recover 
physically,  that  he  spoke  to  Hugh  about  his  brother. 
He  was  considerate  to  Hugh  in  those  days,  pathetically 
apologetic  sometimes,  and  spoke  to  him  now  without  the 


100  MANY   JUNES 

anger  he  had  addressed  to  Dunster.  "  You  didn't  knoTf 
everything,"  he  said.  "  But  you  might  have  guessed 
that  Sir  Simeon  Lelacheur,  who  is  no  brother  of  mine, 
has  behaved  in  such  a  way  to  me  that  it  was  wrong 
of  you  to  have  speech  with  him  at  all.  You  have  never 
heard  me  mention  his  name,  and  that  ought  to  have  been 
enough  for  you.  I  have  forty  years  of  insult  to  re- 
member against  that  man,  and  I  forbid  you  from  hence- 
forth to  have  any  dealings  with  him  whatever." 

Poor  Hugh  listened,  gloomily  submissive.  He  had  no 
weapons  with  which  to  fight  what  he  knew  to  be  ground- 
less prejudice,  and  if  he  had,  he  could  not  at  that  time 
have  used  them  against  his  father.  Among  all  that 
he  was  losing,  the  friendship  of  that  gentle  kindly  old 
man  seemed  to  him  the  greatest  deprivation. 

He  lived  on  in  his  father's  rooms.  He  had  nothing 
to  do  and  nowhere  to  go.  All  possibility  of  the  Uni- 
versity was  over.  Mr.  Burham  no  longer  held  out  any 
hope,  and  his  name  had  been  taken  off  the  books  of 
Trinity.  He  did  not  know  what  was  to  become  of  him, 
and  at  this  time  he  did  not  very  much  care.  Whatever 
it  was  it  would  not  bring  him  happiness.  Of  that  he 
was  assured. 

His  father  paid  little  attention  to  him.  All  his 
time  was  spent  over  his  papers,  and  in  consultation  with 
his  lawyer;  or  he  would  lie  still,  with  his  eyes  open, 
chewing  the  cud  of  his  bitter  thoughts.  Hugh  was  told 
nothing  of  the  way  in  which  affairs  were  arranging 
themselves,  but  he  gathered,  chiefly  from  Dunster,  that 
there  was  no  hope  of  a  settlement  that  would  leave  more 


SETTLEMENT  101 

than  a  bare  competence  for  those  dependent  on  his 
father.  He  learned,  to  his  great  distress,  that  Miss 
Wilkinson's  money  had  been  trusted  to  her  brother-in- 
law  to  invest  in  the  harebrained  schemes  from  which  he 
had  hoped  so  much,  and  that  it)  had  gone  with  the 
rest.  It  was  an  added  source  of  disquiet  in  a  most 
unhappy  time. 

Finally  the  accounts  were  brought  to  order  and  the 
best  and  the  worst  were  known.  Bankruptcy  was 
averted,  but  when  everything  should  have  been  sold  that 
could  be  sold  there  would  be  left  a  few  thousand  pounds 
out  of  the  many  that  had  supported  two  families  in 
affluence  and  would  finally  have  come  to  Hugh  and 
Anne.  The  portion  that  should  have  come  to  them  in 
a  year  or  two's  time  from  their  mother  had  gone  with 
the  rest,  and  it  was  the  knowledge  of  this  failure  of 
trust,  and  the  ruin  he  had  brought  upon  his  sister-in- 
law,  that  kept  the  Admiral  sitting  for  hour  after 
hour  staring  into  the  fire,  with  his  hands  on  the 
rug  over  his  knees,  and  a  sombre  baffled  look  in  his 
eyes. 

He  was  not  without  friends  to  offer  him  help  and 
advice,  but  he  would  accept  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  Only  one  of  them,  more  insistent  than  the  rest, 
who  came  more  than  once,  and  saw  Hugh  moping  about 
the  rooms,  useless  to  himself  or  any  one,  pressed  for  a 
decision  as  to  the  boy's  future,  and  finally  came  with  an 
offer  for  him  of  a  clerkship  in  the  Shipping  and  Mer- 
cantile Insurance  Association,  of  which  he  was  a 
director.  Hugh  was  hardly  consulted  about  the 


102  MANY  JUNES 

arrangement.  The  Admiral  accepted  it  for  him,  and, 
almost  before  he  had  realized  the  importance  of  the 
step,  he  found  himself  on  his  way  to  the  City,  embarked 
upon  an  occupation  which  was  about  the  last  he  would 
.have  chosen  if  any  decision  had  rested  with  him. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE   TOWN 

THE  Shipping  and  Mercantile  Insurance  Association 
occupied  a  large  stone  building,  solid  but  unreasonably 
ornate,  in  Leadenhall  Street,  and  Hugh  had  to  be  in 
his  place  in  the  great  central  office  every  morning  at 
half-past  nine.  When  it  was  fine  he  walked  there,  past 
the  great  club  houses  in  Pall  Mall,  by  Trafalgar  Square 
and  Charing  Cross,  and  on  to  the  Embankment,  and  so 
away  from  the  streets  of  ease  and  leisure  to  join  the 
stream  setting  citywards. 

Along  by  the  river  the  stream  was  comparatively 
thin.  It  was  too  early  yet  for  the  cabs  and  carriages  of 
the  men  who  gave  employment  to  such  as  he,  and  most 
of  those  who  kept  his  hours  used  the  more  congested 
routes.  The  broad  grey  river,  under  the  slaty  winter 
sky,  was  a  consolation  to  him.  Sometimes  a  breath  of 
the  sea  seemed  to  be  borne  up  on  its  tide,  and  the  gulls 
circled  over  the  bridges  and  the  water  and  the  roadway. 
Men  who  worked  with  their  hands  and  not  with  their 
brains  laboured  on  the  barges,  and  others  on  the  wharfs 
across  the  river.  The  wind  blew  upon  them  icily.  They 
knew  the  pain  of  manual  toil,  but  they  had  its  reward* 
Though  serving  they  were  free. 

At  Blackfriars  the  crowd  became  more  concentrated. 
Hugh  was  one  of  the  thousands  whom  the  streets  and 

103 


104  MANY   JUNES 

buildings  engulfed  daily,  each  atom  coming  from  far 
or  near,  where  there  was  space  and  individuality,  to 
swell  the  organized  and  collected  power  which  would 
move  forward  one  day  the  great  engine  of  commerce. 
The  stream  flowed  more  quickly  here,  between  the  high 
stone  walls.  Those  few  upon  whom  it  rested  to  invent 
and  control  seemed  to  be  putting  away  from  them  the 
influences  of  their  private  lives,  and  to  be  wrapping 
themselves  in  the  atmosphere  of  contest.  Their  faces 
were  thoughtful,  their  steps  quickened.  It  was  these 
who  set  the  pace,  and  carried  with  them  the  many  who 
had  nothing  to  do  with  guiding  the  engine,  whose  labour 
expressed  itself  in  hours,  who  must  be  diligent  and 
careful,  but  need  not  be  anxious,  who  could  carry  their 
home  thoughts  as  far  as  their  office  stools  and  could 
take  them  up  again  when  the  appointed  hours  of  their 
labour  were  done,  without  one  look  backwards  or  for- 
wards at  the  end  to  which  their  day's  work  tended. 

Of  these  was  Hugh,  who,  with  hundreds  and  even 
thousands  like  himself,  provided  the  power  which  moved 
the  immense  machine  of  finance,  so  many  hours  a  day, 
so  many  days  a  year  of  accurate  routine  work,  never 
varied,  never  ceasing. 

He  sat  at  a  long  mahogany  desk  in  the  large  outer 
office,  with  a  score  or  more  of  other  clerks,  each  with 
his  high  stool,  his  pens  and  ink  and  blotting-pad.  A 
double  brass  rail  running  the  length  of  the  desk  held  the 
heavy  ledgers  when  they  were  placed  for  a  moment 
aside.  Entering,  casting,  comparing1,  indexing,  the 
work  went  forward  diligently.  It  kept  the  brain  active, 


THE   TOWN  105 

almost  amused,  so  that  the  hours  slipped  by  and  none 
of  them  were  irksome  in  reality,  though  they  might 
seem  so  in  anticipation,  if  the  mind  were  projected  over 
a  long  space  of  time.  Then  the  weight  of  day  after 
day  to  be  spent  with  the  same  monotonous  regularity 
would  fall  heavily  upon  it. 

His  fellow-clerks  belonged  for  the  most  part  to  that 
large  commercial  class  which  is  on  a  social  stratum  below 
the  professional — a  class  in  which  there  is  an  immense 
capacity  for  steady  unambitious  work,  but  little  enter- 
prise. It  is  from  a  lower  class,  or  else  a  higher,  that 
those  adventurous  spirits  come  who  fight  upwards  for 
commercial  supremacy,  who  scorn  the  "  steady  rise " 
and  risk  its  highest  altitudes  for  something  higher. 
Most  of  them  were  the  sons  of  employees  of  the  better 
sort,  whose  ambition  did  not  rise  higher  than  to  be  em- 
ployees of  the  better  sort  themselves;  a  few  were  the 
sons  of  clergymen  or  doctors ;  but  among  them  all  there 
was  not  one  of  whom  it  could  be  said  that  he  was  using 
his  time  or  opportunities  with  a  view  to  anything  beyond 
the  upper  post«  of  the  service  in  which  he  had  embarked. 
They  took  life  as  they  found  it;  so  many  hours  in 
the  day  were  occupied  by  their  work,  and  by  their  work 
they  earned  their  play.  They  were  interested  in  their 
few  weeks'  holiday,  in  their  cricket  and  football  and 
lawn-tennis  clubs,  in  their  days  up  the  river,  in  their 
theatre-going  and  dances,  in  their  clothes,  in  their  love- 
making,  some  of  them  in  books,  a  few  in  religion,  some  in 
horse-racing,  some  in  politics.  These  were  the  things 
.they  talked  of  when  they  went  out  together  to  l*uich, 


106  MANY   JUNES 

or  walked  towards  the  stations  from  which  they  gained 
their  homes,  but  seldom  of  the  work  in  which  they  had 
just  been  occupied. 

Those  of  Hugh's  own  standing,  with  whom  he  chiefly 
consorted,  were  good-natured  or  polite  to  him,  but  did 
not  readily  receive  him  into  their  fellowship.  His  up- 
bringing had  made  him  shy  and  reserved,  younger  than 
his  years  in  the  arts  by  which  a  young  man  gains  ac- 
ceptance among  his  fellows.  He  knew  nothing  of  the 
things  in  which  they  were  interested,  and  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him  to  talk  to  them  of  the  affairs 
of  his  own  life,  of  the  delights  with  which  he  and  his 
sister  had  filled  their  days  at  Foyle,  or  of  the  ambitions 
cut  short  by  his  father's  downfall.  He  was  quiet  and 
modest,  rather  too  willing,  if  anything,  to  submit  to  the 
claims  of  the  loud-voiced,  and  as  far  as  possible  from 
giving  himself  airs  on  account  of  a  parentage  more  dis- 
tinguished than  that  of  his  companions;  but  his  name 
and  his  reserve  and  his  air  of  melancholy  marked  him  as 
different  from  the  rest,  and  his  loneliness  among  them 
did  not  decrease  as  the  novelty  of  his  position  wore  off. 

When  his  day's  work  was  over  he  would  go  back  to 
his  father's  rooms  in  St.  James's.  The  life  he  led  there 
was  as  quiet  as  it  could  be.  He  would  sit  and  read  until 
dinner-time,  and  again  after  dinner  until  it  was  time  to 
go  to  bed.  The  Admiral  never  read,  but  he  was  always 
there,  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth  looking 
steadfastly  into  the  fire.  He  would  sit  thus  for  whole 
evenings  and  never  speak  a  word.  Dunster  waited  on 
them  at  dinner  and  he  would  sometimes  speak  to 


THE   TOWN  107 

Dunster,  but  to  Hugh  very  seldom.  Hugh  got  used  to 
his  silence.  He  would  always  rather  have  read  a  book 
than  talked,  except  to  Anne  and  sometimes  to  Dunster. 
But  when  the  Admiral  went  to  bed,  punctually  at  ten 
o'clock,  he  went  up  to  bed  too.  It  was  lonely  sitting  in 
front  of  the  fire  by  himself. 

The  Admiral  never  went  outside  the  house.  Hugh 
would  go  out  with  Dunster  on  Saturday  afternoon  or 
on  Sunday,  and  they  would  be  merry  together.  Their 
relations  were  almost  those  of  a  child  and  an  old  family 
nurse.  They  walked  in  Hyde  Park  and  Kensington 
Gardens,  they  went  to  the  Zoo,  to  the  Tower,  to  the 
National  Gallery,  to  Madame  Tussaud's,  and  sometimes 
to  a  matinee  at  a  theatre.  On  Sunday  they  went  to  a 
church  at  St.  Paul's  or  the  Abbey.  Dunster  was  ready 
to  be  amused  at  anything  and  everything,  and  Hugh 
relied  on  him  largely  for  his  philosophy  of  life.  They 
spoke  very  seldom  of  the  catastrophe  that  had  come 
about,  or  of  what  would  follow  it,  and  when  they  did 
Dunster  expressed  himself  with  a  careless  optimism 
which  could  hardly  have  represented  his  true  feeling. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  they  were  sitting  under  the 
pines  on  Hampstead  Heath  looking  over  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  country  that  lay  open  before  them,  fields  and 
trees  on  the  level  plain,  with  a  glimpse  of  water,  wooded 
hills  in  the  distance,  and  no  sign  as  yet  of  those  creep- 
ing tentacles  of  brick  which  London  would  some  day 
stretch  out  to  claim  it.  Hugh  had  been  reading  to 
Dunster  part  of  a  letter  from  Anne  which  she  had  writ- 
ten before  she  had  heard  of  her  father's  seizure.  She 


108  MANY  JUNES 

had  written  of  her  happiness,  and  of  her  life  in  the 
country  in  which  she  had  made  her  home. 

Dunster  listened  and  shifted  in  his  seat.  His  nostrils 
idilated  and  his  eyes  sought  the  horizon,  where  the  sun 
was  sinking  in  red  clouds  behind  the  spire  of  Harrow 
Church.  "  Ah,  now,"  he  burst  out,  "  there's  a  life  for 
a  man  !  Life  in  the  sun  and  the  wind — room  to  breathe. 
It  seems  like  Paradise  after  the  soots  of  London.  That 
there  sun,  he's  on  his  way  there  now,  bless  his  round 
face,  and  he'll  shine  tonight  over  a  free  and  open 
country.  Acrost  the  wide  sea  he'll  go,  with  the  ships 
a-followin'  of  'im.  I  wish  I  was  on  one  of  5em." 

"  You  wouldn't  go  out  there  and  leave  us,  Dunster?  " 
said  Hugh  anxiously. 

Dunster's  lip  shut  down.  "  No,  I  wouldn't,"  he  said, 
"  not  so  long  as  the  Admiral's  alive.  By  him  I'll  stay 
till  the  end  comes.  But,  Master  Hugh,  it's  no  good 
making  up  fairy  tales.  The  Admiral,  he  won't  live  many 
years  more — perhaps  not  many  months  more — and  when 
he's  gone,  why  then,  you  and  me — that's  a  different 
thing.  You're  young  and  I'm  hard.  I'm  thinking 
that'll  be  the  place  for  us.  You  work  hard  with  your 
body  and  you  sleep  deep.  The  winter  and  the  summer 
comes  and  you're  the  same  as  them.  There's  a  God 
above  you.  You  take  what  comes  and  thank  Him  for  it 
all.  He'll  see  you  through.  You're  doing  the  work  He 
planned  out  for  a  man,  sowing  and  reaping  and  feed- 
ing the  flocks  and  herds.  That's  life,  and  that's  how 
you  and  me'll  take  it." 

Hugh  looked  out  over  the  dark  country.     His  eyes 


THE   TOWN  109 

were  troubled.  "  What  should  /  do  over  there  ?  "  he 
asked. 

Dunster  looked  at  him  affectionately.  "  You'll  do  the 
same  as  Mr.  George,"  he  said.  "  Ain't  it  better  worth 
doing  than  what  you're  doing  now?  And  you'd  be  with 
Miss  Anne." 

"  If  I  were  like  George,"  said  Hugh  slowly,  "  and  if 
Anne  wanted  me." 

"  Want  you !  "  echoed  Dunster.  "  There  wouldn't  be 
much  doubt  o'  that.  Him  too,  if  he's  what  I  take  him  to 
be;  and  you  don't  make  mistakes  about  men  like  him." 

"  You  don't  think  father  is  going  to  die  soon,  do 
you?" 

"  Please  God  he  won't.  But  he  hasn't  got  much  to 
live  for,  and  you'd  best  look  forward  a  bit.  But  there, 
I  won't  say  no  more.  Here  we  bides  for  the  present. 
But  there's  the  great  sea  awaiting  for  us,  and  acrost  it 
that  land  of  plenty.  They'll  stay  there  till  we  want 
them.  And  now  we'd  best  be  getting  home." 

Dunster  never  spoke  otherwise  than  hopefully  to 
Hugh  of  the  Admiral's  complete  recovery.  He  never 
spoke  to  him  at  all  about  money  matters.  Things  went 
on  as  usual.  Hugh  lived  in  his  father's  rooms  exactly  in 
the  same  way  as  he  would  have  lived  if  the  Admiral  had 
still  been  a  well-to-do  man  and  he  had  come  up  from 
Foyle  to  be  with  him  in  London.  The  rooms  were  com- 
fortable and  in  the  most  expensive  part  of  the  town. 
His  meals  were  simple,  but  well  served.  Dunster  waited 
on  him,  brought  him  his  tea  in  the  morning,  and  laid  out 
his  clothes.  Nothing  was  said  to  him  about  the  salary 


110  MANY   JUNES 

he  was  earning.  He  paid  his  own  small  personal  ex- 
penses out  of  it,  and  kept  what  was  over  in  a  cash-box 
in  a  drawer  of  his  dressing-table.  He  had  no  adventur- 
ous desire  to  spend  money  for  the  sake  of  spending  it. 
He  took  everything  about  him  for  granted,  looked  but 
timidly  into  the  future,  and  that  very  seldom. 

In  the  meantime  there  were  colloquies  between  Dunster 
and  Mr.  Burham,  who  came  often  to  see  the  Admiral. 
Mr.  Burham  was  a  level-headed  business  man,  whom  the 
human  side  of  affairs  interested.  He  would  always 
rather  draw  up  a  marriage  settlement  than  a  lease,  and 
preferred  a  case  in  the  Old  Bailey  to  one  in  the  Law 
Courts.  The  Admiral  would  only  talk  to  him  of  figures, 
and  kept  him  otherwise  at  arm's  length ;  so  he  sometimes 
discussed  his  client's  affairs  with  his  client's  servant, 
always  in  a  rather  stately,  condescending  way,  and 
was  relieved  to  have  that  outlet  for  a  very  ready  sym- 
pathy. 

"  You  must  understand,  my  good  man,"  he  said  one 
afternoon  with  his  foot  on  the  doorstep,  "  that  the 
present  arrangements  are  only  temporary.  The — er — 
catastrophe  is  so  complete  that  when  your  master  is 
restored  to  health — as  I  hope  he  may  be — a  change  will 
have  to  be  made." 

"You  mean  on  account  of  expense,  sir?"  said 
Dunster. 

"  Yes ;  these  rooms  are  well  enough  for  a  man  of 
means — even  for  a  man  of  moderate  means.  But  a 
hundred  and  fifty  a  year,  or  whatever  they  are — there 
will  hardly  be  that  saved  out  of  the  wreck  for  every- 


THE   TOWN  111 

thing.  And,  as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  I  think 
you  had  better  be  looking  out  for  another  place." 

"You  needn't  think  about  me,  sir,"  said  Dunster. 
"  I  shall  be  with  the  Admiral  as  long  as  he  lives.  But 
if  I  may  make  so  bold — I've  had  a  talk  with  the  doctor, 
and  I  know  my  master  too — he  won't  live  very  long. 
If  you  could  so  arrange  it  as  he  stays  on  here  in  com- 
fort— I  mean,  whatever  money  there  is  left,  don't  keep 
it  for  the  future,  let  him  live  as  he's  been  accustomed 
to  live  for  the  few  weeks  as  remains  to  him." 

"  H'm,"  said  the  lawyer,  looking  at  him  out  of  a 
shrewd  grey  eye.  "  You've  made  up  your  mind  that 
he " 

Dunster  broke  in  on  him.  "  He  won't  last  much 
over  Christmas,  sir,  you  may  take  it  from  me.  I 
must  go  back  to  him  now,  or  he'll  be  suspecting  I'm 
talking  of  him.  But  you  turn  what  I  say  over  in  your 
mind,  sir." 

Mr.  Burham  turned  it  over  in  his  mind  to  such  a 
purpose  that  he  told  Dunster,  a  few  days  later,  to  come 
to  his  office  where  they  could  talk  at  leisure.  Dunster 
went,  and  was  shown  into  a  private  room,  where  the 
lawyer  sat  at  a  big  writing-table  covered  with  orderly 
piles  of  papers,  by  a  dusty  window.  There  were  en- 
gravings of  eminent  lawyers  on  the  dark  walls,  and  one 
or  two  deed-boxes  japanned  black,  upon  one  of  which 
was  painted  "  Admiral  H.  Lelacheur,  C.B." 

"  You're  a  faithful  servant,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  I 
can  see  that.  What  about  the  boy  ?  " 

Dunster  told  him  of  his  plans  for  taking  Hugh  to 


112  MANY  JUNES 

Australia  when  the  Admiral's  death  should  set  him 
free. 

"-I  don't  like  that,"  said  Mr.  Burham  decisively; 
"he  has  his  foot  on  the  ladder  here.  If  he  is  steady 
— and  he  seems  to  be  steady — he  is  in  the  way  of 
being  provided  for  for  life  without  any  anxiety." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but,  begging  your  pardon,  is  it  the  sort 
of  life  for  his  father's  son — a  clerk  in  an  office,  and 
not  much  prospect  of  being  anything  else?" 

"  What  else  is  he  fit  for  ?  He  must  work  for  his 
living.  A  profession  is  out  of  the  question  for  him  now. 
A  big  Insurance  Company  like  that,  there's  nothing  to 
be  ashamed  of." 

"  He's  barely  nineteen,  sir,  and  he'll  be  left  all  alone. 
He  hasn't  been  brought  up  to  look  after  himself.  He's 
good,  and  he's  got  learning,  but  for  anything  else  he's 
not  much  better  than  a  baby.  He's  got  his  father  now, 
and  he  clings  to  him — though  he  don't  know  it — and  he's 
got  me — for  what  a  rough  fellow  like  me  is  worth.  But 
when  he's  left  alone  to  face  the  world — ah!  that'll  be 
different." 

"  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  go  to  Australia 
on  your  own  account — when  the  final  break-up  comes?  " 

Dunster  turned  his  hat  round  between  his  knees. 
His  honest  square  face  was  perplexed.  "  If  you  put 
it  to  me  like  that,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  no  plans 
that  Master  Hugh  doesn't  form  a  part  of.  There's 
his  sister  over  there — she  and  him  was  everything  to 
each  other  up  to  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  he'll  miss  her 
more  than  ever  now,  if  he's  left  here  all  alone.  And 


THE   TOWN  113 

there's  her  husband.  He's  got  a  fine  home  in  a  great 
free  and  open  country.  It'd  be  his  wish  as  well  as  hers 
that  her  brother  should  share  it  with  them.  Don't  keep 
them  apart,  sir.  Loneliness  isn't  what  we  were  made  for, 
and  he'll  feel  it  more  than  most." 

"  My  good  man,"  said  Mr.  Burham,  "  the  matter 
isn't  in  my  hands.  There  will  be  a  little  money  over — 
a  very  little,  I'm  afraid — when  everything  is  settled  up, 
and — and,  if  a  decision  is  called  for  shortly,  whatever 
comes  to  the  boy  will  be  his  to  use  as  he  pleases.  He 
can  go  to  Australia  with  it  if  he  likes.  Certainly,  it 
won't  be  me  who  will  stop  him." 

"  Thank  you  for  that,  sir,"  said  Dunster,  brighten- 
ing. "  Whatever  you'd  say  would  be  much  thought  on, 
and  quite  right  too,  you  being  a  gentleman  of  experi- 
ence, and  kind-hearted,  too,  as  I  know  well.  I've  turned 
it  over  in  my  mind  many  a  time,  lying  awake  at  night 
and  thinking  of  the  sea,  and  the  land  over  there  that's 
as  free  as  the  sea.  That's  the  country  for  my  young 
gentleman  to  make  a  new  start  in  and  forget  all  that's 
happened  here  lately." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Mr.  Burham,  holding  up  his 
finger.  "Is  it?  Is  it  the  country  for  him?"  He 
paused  a  moment  and  Dunster  looked  at  him,  his  face 
grown  longer.  "  It's  the  country  for  you,  I  don't 
doubt,"  he  went  on.  "  You're  a  man  of  your  hands. 
You're  not  young,  but  you  can  turn  to  and  make  your 
own  way  out  there  as  well  as  another,  perhaps  better. 
I  know  what  you're  feeling  at  this  moment.  I  felt  it 
myself  as  a  young  man,  only  not  so  strongly.  You  want 


MANY  JUNES 

to  get  away  from  the  crowds  and  the  streets.  You  want 
room  to  turn  round  in.  You  want  the  sky — now  that's 
it,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Dunster,  "  I  won't  say  but  what 
you're  right.  I  hold  it's  the  right  life  for  a  man." 

^'  For  some  men." 

"  I'll  stay  by  the  Admiral  as  long  as  he's  spared." 

"  But  you  are  already  living  in  the  days  when  he 
shall  be  gone." 

"  And  when  he's  taken,  then  I  say  we  shall  have  done 
our  duty,  me  and  Mr.  Hugh,  and  there'll  be  a  good  life 
coming  for  both  of  us." 

"  You  are  right  to  look  forward  to  it  for  yourself. 
But  for  Mr.  Hugh  I'm  not  so  sure." 

"  He  don't  like  the  streets  no  more  than  I  do,  sir. 
He's  all  for  the  open  air." 

"  What  you  have  to  think  of,  Dunster,  is  this.  Any 
man  who  goes  out  to  that  country — I'm  not  thinking 
of  the  cities,  nor  are  you — must  be  a  man  of  his  hands, 
as  you  are.  If  he's  not  that  he'll  either  sink  or  become 
dependent." 

"  He  won't  sink,  not  as  long  as  I'm  there,  nor  his 
sister  nor  her  husband  neither." 

"  Then  he'll  become  dependent.  Is  that  a  life  for 
his  father's  son  ?  " 

"  He'll  work.    He's  not  one  to  shirk  work." 

"  Not  the  right  work.  But  I  doubt  whether  the  work 
he  would  have  to  do  over  there  would  be  the  right 
work.  So  do  you,  or  you  wouldn't  talk  of  him  as  you 
do.  Man,  he's  got  to  stand  by  himself.  If  you  don't 


THE   TOWN  115 

help  him  to  do  that  you  are  doing  him  no  service.  Put 
it  to  him  fairly.  Tell  him  that  he  has  work  over  here 
that  he  can  do,  and  that  will  keep  him  for  the  rest  of 
his  life.  Tell  him  that  if  he  gives  that  up  he  must  be 
equally  certain  that  he  can  do  something  else  as  useful. 
Then,  if  he  decides  to  throw  up  what  he  has  and  go  to 
the  other  side  of  the  world  with  you,  the  responsibility 
will  be  his.  Don't  make  it  yours.  Don't  coddle  him. 
Let  him  be  a  man." 

Dunster  was  silent  and  perplexed. 

"  Think  it  over,"  said  Mr.  Burham. 

"  There's  something  in  what  you  say,  sir,"  said 
Dunster.  "  If  it  isn't  right  that  he  should  go " 

"  I  don't  say  that  it  isn't  right.  What  I  say  is,  let 
him  decide  for  himself." 

"  It's  never  crossed  my  mind  to  leave  him  alone,  after 
— after  he's  lost  them  as  is  closest  to  him." 

"  It  will  be  right  for  you  to  go  in  any  case.  Every 
man  must  live  his  own  life  unless  he  has  a  clear  call 
to  sacrifice  it.  You  have  no  such  call.  Serve  your 
master  as  long  as  he  lives ;  that's  your  duty,  and  you  are 
doing  it  well.  But  when  he's  gone  it  will  not  be  your 
duty  to  spoil  your  own  life  for  a  young  man  who  ought 
to  stand  on  his  own  feet." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Dunster. 


CHAPTER   IX 

ALONE 

ADMIRAL  LELACHEUR  died  a  few  days  before  Christmas. 
He  had  a  second  seizure,  which  he  survived  only  a  few 
hours,  without  regaining  consciousness. 

The  evening  before  his  death  he  talked  to  Hugh,  sit- 
ting over  the  fire.  Broken  in  health  and  fortune,  he 
may  have  had,  some  premonition  of  the  end,  but  his 
prejudices  and  hatreds  were  still  strong  in  him.  He 
talked  quietly  enough,  but  he  talked  of  little  but  his 
feud  with  his  brother,  whom  in  some  obstinate  crooked 
way  he  looked  upon  as  the  cause  of  his  ruin.  "  I  want 
you,"  he  said,  "  to  give  me  your  solemn  promise  that, 
after  I  am  gone — and  I  don't  care  when  I  go  now — you 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  that  man,  or  anybody  con- 
nected with  him." 

Hugh  sat  silent,  with  a  sinking  heart.  How  much 
he  may  still  have  counted  upon  the  help  and  sympathy 
of  that  kind  old  man  who  had  expressed  himself  so 
anxious  to  help  him,  when  at  some  time  in  the  future 
he  might  be  free  to  go  to  him,*  perhaps  he  hardly  knew 
himself.  Now  he  was  asked  to  cut  himself  off  from  that 
unacknowledged  hope,  suddenly  made  real  by  his  father's 
words.  He  made  one  weak  effort  to  temporize. 

"  I  hope  you  will  get  quite  well  again,  father,"  he  said. 

"  I  sha'n't  get  well  again,"  said  the  Admiral.  "  I 
116 


ALONE  117 

am  too  old.  If  I  were  younger  I  would  get  well  again 
and  I  would  still  show  that  man  that  I  was  a  better  man 
than  he.  Now  I'm  broken;  he  has  his  triumph  and  I 
can't  take  it  away  from  him.  But  you  must  promise 
me  not  to  go  to  him  when  I'm  dead.  You  wouldn't  do 
such  a  dastardly,  cringing  thing.  Say  you  wouldn't." 

He  had  begun  to  work  himself  up  into  an  excitement 
that  caused  Hugh  an  agony  of  fear,  and  snapped  out 
the  last  command  in  a  way  that  Hugh  had  no  power  to 
resist.  "  No,  I  wouldn't ;  I  wouldn't,  father,"  he  cried. 

"  And  when  I'm  dead — whether  I  die  soon  or  late," 
went  on  the  inexorable  voice — "  you  won't  have  any 
dealings  with  him  or  his.  Promise  me  that  you  will  up- 
hold my  honour  when  I  am  gone.  Promise.  Give  me 
your  word  of  honour." 

"  Yes,  I  promise ;  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour," 
cried  the  boy,  and  killed  his  own  hope  and  future 
comfort. 

The  Admiral  became  quieter,  and  talked  naturally  of 
trivial  things  until  they  said  good-night  to  one  another. 
That  good-night  was  the  last  word  he  spoke  to  his  son, 
for  Hugh  was  summoned  from  his  office  the  next  morning 
at  the  news  of  his  seizure,  and  on  the  same  evening  he 
died. 

Dunster  sent  an  announcement  to  The  Times.  It 
followed  immediately  after  that  of  Sir  Simeon 
Lelacheur's  death.  The  two  old  men,  once  friends  and 
playmates,  parted  for  a  lifetime,  had  come  together 
again. 

The  funeral  was  in  a  London  cemetery.    Hugh  would 


118       '  MANY   JUNE& 

have  liked  his  father  to  be  buried  at  Foyle,  but  Mr. 
Burham  discouraged  the  idea,  and  he  did  not  press  it. 
There  were  paragraphs  in  the  papers,  and  the  old 
sailor  was  followed  to  the  grave  by  many  who  had  known 
him  in  the  days  of  his  success.  His  failure  was  of 
too  recent  a  date  to  have  divided  him  from  those  of  his 
own  world,  and  it  was  wiped  out  in  the  memory  of  those 
who  had  known  him  by  his  long  and  distinguished 
service. 

But  there  was  little  consolation  for  Hugh  in  the 
sight  of  the  many  strange  faces.  One  or  two  of  those 
who  had  visited  his  father  at  Foyle  spoke  to  him  kindly 
before  they  parted,  but  the  only  one  of  the  Admiral's 
friends — Anne's  godfather — who  might  have  done  more 
than  that  for  him  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  world, 
and  the  bustling  and  not  altogether  un cheerful  crowd 
only  made  his  loneliness  more  complete.  Dunster,  in 
the  background,  his  red  face  convulsed  with  grief,  was 
the  only  real  friend  he  had  amongst  them  all,  and  he 
would  have  given  a  great  deal  to  be  able  to  drive  back 
with  Dunster  instead  of  having  to  share  a  carriage  with 
his  aunt. 

Miss  Wilkinson  had  travelled  up  from  Brighton  to 
attend  her  brother-in-law's  funeral.  She  bore  him  no 
ill-will,  so  she  told  her  nephew,  but  her  mind  was  full  of 
her  own  griefs,  and  her  continual  comparison  of  her 
former  wealth  and  her  present  indigence  were  more 
painful  to  Hugh  than  if  she  had  reproached  his  father's 
memory  bitterly.  She  had  had  to  sell  her  comfortable 
house  and  her  furniture ;  it  was  nearly  all  that  was  left 


ALONE  119 

to  her.  Mr.  Burham  had  invested  the  proceeds  of  the 
sale  for  her,  and  she  had  enough  to  live  on  at  a  board- 
ing-house, or  in  lodgings,  but  not  enough  to  provide 
her  with  any  of  the  luxuries  or  with  the  consideration 
whicH  had  added  savour  to  her  life.  She  had  taken 
refuge  in  a  mild  form  of  religion,  and  spoke  with  resig- 
nation of  her  lot,  when  she  remembered  to  do  so. 

"  *  The  Lord  gave  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away,'  " 
she  said.  "  I  daresay  it  is  all  for  the  best ;  but,  oh ! 
Hugh,  when  I  saw  all  the  beautiful  things  that  I  had 
grown>  up  amongst  sold  to  strangers,  many  of  them 
for  a  mere  song,  I  could  have  sat  down  and  cried.  And 
I  felt  that  I  could  not  go  on  living  at  St.  Leonards, 
where  we  were  so  respected,  though  I  am  sure  none  of  our 
old  friends  would  have  made  any  difference  in  their  treat- 
ment of  me.  There  are  many  people  where  I  am  now 
whom  I  would  not  have  known  in  the  old  days.  But  I 
must  bear  it ;  it  is  my  cross ;  and,  as  I  say,  it  is  prob- 
ably all  for  the  best,  though  it  is  difficult  to  see  it  in 
that  light;  and  it  was  my  own  fault,  I  suppose,  for 
wanting  to  be  richer  than  I  was,  when  I  had  everything 
that  I  could  wish  for.  I  can't  blame  your  poor  father 
there ;  he  put  it  all  fairly  before  me." 

"  I  suppose  he  thought  that  everything  would  turn 
out  all  right,"  said  Hugh  lamely. 

"  Oh  yes.  He  used  all  his  own  money  in  the  same 
way,  unfortunately.  And  there  would  have  been  no 
advantage  to  him  if  my  investments  had  turned  out 
well.  He  just  advised  me  for  what  he  thought  my 
good,  and  I  must  not  complain  if  I  was  misled." 


120  MANY   JUNES 

Hugh  felt  that  this  was  handsome  on  his  aunt's  part, 
and  he  was  grateful.  But  there  was  no  warmth  of  feel- 
ing towards  her  in  his  heart.  He  knew  her  very  little, 
and  the  reverses  she  had  suffered  could  only  make  him 
uncomfortable  in  her  presence.  If  she  would  have  talked 
to  him  about  Anne  he  would  have  liked  her  better, 
but  when  he  spoke  to  her  of  his  sister  she  answered  him 
in  a  sentence  and  then  went  back  to  her  own  troubles. 
He  was  relieved  when  he  saw  her  off  at  the  station  on 
her  way  back  to  Brighton.  There  was  no  suggestion 
from  her  that  they  should  meet  again. 

Hugh  went  back  to  the  empty  rooms  from  which 
his  father  had  been  taken  and  sat  down  in  his  easy- 
chair  by  the  fire.  On  the  other  side  of  the  hearth  was 
the  chair  in  which  his  father  had  sat  only  a  few  eve- 
nings before,  and  for  many  evenings  before  that.  Be- 
yond the  folding  doors  was  the  bedroom  in  which  he 
had  slept  the  sleep  of  a  strong,  vigorous  man ;  in  which 
he  had  lain  ill  and  sad;  in  which  he  had  died.  Both 
rooms  were  his,  and  seemed  to  be  only  his ;  now  that  he 
had  left  them  they  lacked  something  vital ;  their  aspect 
was  completely  changed.  Hugh  could  no  more  have 
thought  of  them  as  his  own  than  of  a  room  in  a  hotel 
which  he  might  be  occupying  for  a  night  or  two.  They 
spoke  to  him  with  a  voice  that  was  almost  audible,  with 
a  sense  of  desolation  and  intolerable  loneliness.  He 
looked  round  upon  them  blankly,  trying  to  understand 
the  meaning  of  the  new  sensations  that  were  crowding 
fast  upon  him.  His  eyes  fell  upon  a  photograph  on  the 
mantelpiece — a  group  of  the  Admiral  and  Anne  and 


ALONE  121 

himself  under  the  cedar  at  Foyle,  taken  in  the  early 
summer  by  George  Blomfield — and  suddenly  the  tears 
came  in  a  burst,  without  any  warning,  and  he  sobbed 
convulsively. 

Dunster  came  in  later,  and  found  him  sitting  in  his 
chair  with  only  the  firelight  In  the  room.  The  paroxysm 
of  weeping  was  over.  He  would  shed  no  more  tears. 
He  spoke  in  an  even  voice;  asked  Dunster  to  light 
the  gas  and  leave  him  alone  for  another  hour.  Dunster 
looked  towards  him  and  obeyed,  without  a  word. 

He  took  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket,  a  letter  that  he 
had  received  only  that  morning  from  Anne.  It  had 
been  written  immediately  after  she  had  heard  the  full 
news  of  the  loss  of  their  father's  fortune,  and  their 
own.  It  was  full  of  grief  and  affection,  both  for  her 
father  and  himself.  She  made  light  of  the  loss  of 
her  own  money,  and  Hugh  had  another  letter  in  his 
pocket  from  George,  who  told  him  that  they  could  do 
very  well  without  it.  But  Anne  explained  that, 
although  they  had  everything  they  could  want,  and 
were  living  in  the  big  house  that  George's  father  had 
built  on  one  of  his  up-country  stations,  their  actual  in- 
come was  very  small.  Her  distress  at  not  being  able 
to  help  her  brother  to  the  University  career  to  which 
he  had  so  looked  forward,  and  which  they  had  talked 
over  so  often,  was  very  apparent,  but  she  begged  Hugh 
to  promise  to  come  out  to  her  if  their  father's  illness 
should  end  fatally,  and  make  his  home  with  her  and 
her  husband.  And  George  had  seconded  the  invitation. 
Hugh  was  to  bring  Dunster  too ;  life  in  the  Bush  was  the 


122  MANY  JUNES 

best  life  in  the  world,  and  he  could  find  plenty  of  work 
for  them  both. 

One  phrase  in  George's  letter  ran :  "  You  will  spend 
whole  days  in  the  saddle,"  and  another :  "  As  long  as 
Anne  and  I  are  alive  this  will  be  your  home.  You  may 
say  the  same  to  old  Dunster ;  but  Dunster  will  always 
be  sure  of  a  living  anywhere." 

Hugh  was  still  looking  into  the  fire  when  Dunster 
came  in  again  an  hour  later.  He  sat  upright,  and  said : 
"  Come  and  sit  down,  and  let  us  talk  about  what  is 
going  to  happen." 

Dunster  took  a  chair  and  cleared  his  throat. 
"  You've  got  a  letter  from  Miss  Anne,  there,"  he  said ; 
"  what  does  she  say?  " 

"  She  wants  me  to  go  to  Australia ;  and  you  too." 

Dunster's  face  cleared.  He  slapped  a  big  hand  on 
a  round  knee.  "  That's  what  I  thought,"  he  said. 
"  And  Mr.  George,  he  says  the  same,  I'll  be  bound?  " 

"  Yes,  he  does." 

"  It  seems  like  Providence  them  letters  coming  on  the 
very  day  we  buried  the  dear  master — and  buried  the 
old  trouble  too,  I  hope  and  trust,  Mr.  Hugh." 

"  Anne  says  they  are  coming  home  next  summer.  Of 
course  she  hoped  to  see  father  again." 

"  And  he's  gone.  No  need  to  come  home  now,  until 
they  come  for  a  holiday.  Home'll  be  over  there  now,  for 
you  and  her  and  all  of  us." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  Australia,  Dunster." 

He  spoke  quietly,  looking  into  the  fire.  Dunster's 
face  lengthened.  "Eh?"  he  said  inquiringly. 


ALONE  123 

"  You  must  go,  Dunster.  They  want  you,  and  you 
will  be  able  to  get  a  good  living  for  yourself." 

"Me  go  and  leave  you  behind,  Mr.  Hugh?  No; 
that  I  won't.  And  as  for  wanting,  don't  Miss  Anne 
want  you  as  much  as  she  wants  anybody  'cept  her  hus- 
band? I'll  be  bound  she  does,  and  I'll  be  bound  she  says 
so  in  that  there  letter,  so  as  you  can't  mistake  it." 

"  I  want  her  too.  Nobody  knows  how  much  I  want 
her." 

(tf  Very  well,  then.  Where's  the  sense  of  talking  about 
stopping  here?  You  don't  mean  it,  Mr.  Hugh.  I  don't 
know  what  you've  got  into  your  head." 

"  Dunster,  I'm  not  a  child  any  longer.  A  few  weeks 
ago — perhaps  a  few  hours  ago — I  would  have  done  what 
I  was  told,  and  it  would  have  seemed  like  getting  back 
to  summer  again  to  go  out  there  and  live  with  Anne — 
and  with  you  there  too,  and  everything  happy  as  it  was 
at  Foyle." 

"  Well,  that's  just  what  it  will  be." 

"  But  now  I  know  you  can't  go  back  in  that  way. 
It  is  all  changed.  If  I  were  different,  if  I  were  like 
George,  and  could  make  my  own  way  in  the  sort  of 
life  you  must  lead  out  there,  I  might  go.  But " 

"  You  could  make  your  way.  There's  everything  and 
everybody  to  help  you." 

"  But  I  know  I  couldn't.  Nobody  would  think  of 
sending  me  out  there  alone.  They  would  know  that  I 
wasn't  fitted  for  that  sort  of  life." 

"  But  you  won't  be  going  alone,  Mr.  Hugh.  Oh, 
don't  take  such  thoughts  into  your  head.  There's  me 


124  MANY   JUNES 

will  be  with  you  as  long  as  I  live,  and  there's  Miss 
Anne  and  her  husband,  they'll  never  let  you  want." 

"  That's  just  it.  I'm  to  be  looked  after ;  and  I  know 
I  should  be,  and  everybody  would  be  as  kind  as  possible. 
But  I  can't  live  like  that  any  more.  It  would  get  worse 
as  I  grew  older.  Would  you  like  to  see  me  in  ten  years' 
time  living  on  my  sister  and  her  husband,  and  being 
taken  care  of?  Dunster,  I'm  not  worth  much,  but  I'm 
worth  more  than  that." 

Dunster  stared  at  him  ruefully.  "  You're  talking 
just  like  Mr.  Burham  talked,"  he  said. 

"  Mr.  Burham  ?  Has  he  talked  to  you  .about  it  ? 
What  did  he  say?  He  has  said  nothing  to  me." 

"  I'm  an  honest  man,  and  when  I  say  I'll  do  a  thing 
I'll  do  it,  though  it  goes  against  me.  He  said  you'd 
got  a  good  job  here,  and  I  wasn't  to  talk  you  over  into 
changing  without  saying  so." 

"  Without  saying  what?  " 

"  That  you'd  got  a  good  job  here.  It  isn't  me  that's 
saying  it's  good,  mind  that.  No  job  is  good,  to  my 
mind,  that  keeps  you  slaving  away  between  four  walls 
when  there's  the  good  earth  to  give  you  your  living, 
and  the  sun  and  the  air.  It  ain't  the  money,  it's  the 
life." 

**  Well,  I've  made  up  my  mind.  Mr.  Burham  says  the 
same — but  I  wish  he  had  said  it  to  me..  I  can  make 
my  living  here.  I  won't  be  dependent  on  others,  now 
father  is  dead,  however  much  I  love  them." 

"  And  they  loves  you  too,  remember  that." 

"  I  shall  see  Anne  in  less  than  a  year.     It  will  be 


ALONE  125 

a  long  time  to  wait,  but  I  shall  have  that  to  look  forward 
to.  I  know  she  will  come.  She  will  respect  me  all  the 
more  if  I  am  making  my  own  way.  I  know  she  will." 

Dunster  urged  and  pleaded,  but  all  to  no  purpose. 
"  I  never  seed  it  in  your  character  before,  Mr.  Hugh," 
he  said  at  last,  "  but  when  you  take  anything  into  your 
head  you're  to  be  moved  no  more  than  the  Admiral 
was." 

Hugh  smiled  at  him  ruefully.  "  I  know  I  am  right  in 
what  I  have  decided,  Dunster;  but,  oh!  how  I  wish  I 
could  go  with  you  1 " 

"  Go  with  me  ?  "  said  Dunster  roughly.  "  If  you 
don't  go  I  don't  go,  and  there's  an  end  of  that.  I  can 
be  stubborn  too." 

Nevertheless  Dunster  went  in  a  fortnight's  time. 
Hugh  saw  him  off  at  Tilbury,  and  afterwards  went 
back  to  the  rooms  he  had  taken  in  Earl's  Court,  to 
begin  his  new  life  alone. 


CHAPTER   X 

WORK 

HUGH'S  income  was  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds 
a  year.  The  greater  part  of  this  came  from  his  salary, 
the  rest  from  the  very  small  sum  of  money  that  Mr. 
Burham  handed  over  to  him  after  his  father's  estate 
was  wound  up.  Under  the  lawyer's  advice  he  used  this 
sum  to  supplement  his  earnings  until,  by  an  annual  in- 
crease, they  should  reach  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds 
a  year,  by  which  time  it  would  be  exhausted.  He  had 
no  other  source  of  income  to  look  forward  to. 

There  was  some  interest  in  apportioning  his  expendi- 
ture, which  he  did  very  thoroughly:  so  much  for  board 
and  lodging,  so  much  for  clothes,  so  much  for  daily 
expenses,  so  much  for  an  annual  holiday,  and  a  margin 
for  emergencies.  Dunster  helped  him  to  do  this  before 
he  sailed  for  Australia.  It  was  Dunster  who  scoured 
London  to  find  suitable  lodgings  for  him,  which  he  did 
at  last  in  the  tiny  house  of  a  respectable  widow,  who 
was  persuaded  to  supplement  an  inadequate  income  by 
letting  two  diminutive  rooms  to  so  unimpeachable  a 
tenant  as  Hugh.  She  was  a  thin-lipped,  silent  woman, 
combining  a  pitiful  independence  and  some  show  of 
gentility  with  an  almost  incredible  penury.  She  was 
careful  to  explain  that  she  had  been  brought  up  a  lady, 
and  that  nothing  would  induce  her  to  let  lodgings  in 

126 


WORK  127 

the  ordinary  way.  Dunster  succeeded  somehow  in 
persuading  her  that  a  gentleman  of  Hugh's  quality 
might  inhabit  two  of  her  rooms  as  a  matter  of  con- 
venience without  being  looked  upon  as  a  lodger.  He 
would  pay  her  rent  and  the  wages  of  a  servant.  Her 
position  in  the  world  would  thereby  be  improved,  and 
she  would  lose  nothing  but  the  use  of  the  rooms,  which 
she  did  not  need.  The  bait  of  a  servant  caught  her, 
and  for  the  years  during  which  Hugh  lived  with  her 
she  did  her  duty  by  him  loyally,  but  kept  up  the  fiction 
that  he  and  she  were  a  lady  and  gentleman  of  ample 
means,  each  living  in  a  small  way  for  private  reasons 
which  did  not  concern  the  other.  Therefore  there  must 
be  no  sort  of  intercourse  between  them,  and  any  money 
that  was  involved  in  the  arrangement  had  t6  pass  with 
a  great  deal  of  circumstance. 

Hugh  was  much  better  off  than  he  knew.  His  two 
little  rooms  were  kept  with  scrupulous  cleanliness,  his 
meals  were  well  served,  and  even  his  clothes  were  looked 
after.  For  the  money  that  he  succeeded,  not  without 
difficulty,  in  conveying  to  Mrs.  Millett  he  would  prob- 
ably have  attained  elsewhere  a  mean  lodging,  squalid 
and  dirty,  and  a  good  deal  more  of  his  landlady's  con- 
versation than  would  have  been  necessary  to  his  com- 
fort. But  Mrs.  Millett  persistently  shunned  him: 
sometimes  many  weeks  would  pass  without  his  setting 
eyes  on  her;  and  he  was  as  much  alone  as  if  there  had 
been  no  one  else  in  the  house.  It  would  have  cheered 
his  loneliness  a  little  if  she  had  chosen  to  talk  to  him 
occasionally;  but  he  was  made  to  understand,  at  an 


128  MANY   JUNES 

early  date,  that  they  were  to  play  at  being  strangers, 
and  after  a  time  he  came  to  ignore  her  existence 
entirely. 

Mrs.  Millett's  father  had  been  a  die  oensing  chemist, 
her  husband  his  assistant.  She  had  started  her  mar- 
ried life  in  the  little  house  in  which  Hugh  now  lived 
with  her.  It  had  been  well  furnished  for  her  by  her 
father,  mostly  with  things  he  had  inherited.  Hugh's 
sitting-room  contained  a  Sheraton  bureau  and  a  book- 
case, a  round  pedestal  table  with  brass  claw  feet,  two 
or  three  good  chairs,  and  an  unwieldy  straight-backed 
sofa,  and  there  was  room  for  little  else.  On  an  ugly 
drab  wall  paper  with  brown  poppies  were  a  few  old  en- 
gravings in  polished  maple  frames :  "  The  Landing  of 
William  of  Orange,"  "The  Death  of  Lord  Robert 
Manners,"  a  full-length  portrait  of  the  Duke  of  Well- 
ington, and  a  "  Scene  near  Sorrento."  Above  the 
mantelpiece  was  a  long  mirror  in  a  tarnished  gilt  frame, 
and  on  it  a  heavy  marble  clock,  two  ebony  and  ivory 
elephants,  and  two  Japanese  bronze  candlesticks. 
Upon  these  household  goods  Hugh's  eyes  came  to  rest 
daily  for  some  years.  Foyle  had  been  sold  exactly  as 
it  stood,  with  all  its  contents.  He  had  brought 
nothing  with  him  but  his  clothes  and  a  few  books  from 
his  father's  rooms  in  St.  James's.  He  added  to  his 
stock  of  books  housed  in  the  bookcase  above  the  bureau 
as  time  went  on,  and  bought  himself  an  easy-chair. 
Otherwise  the  effects  which  Mrs.  Millett  had  assigned  to 
his  use  remained  unchanged.  In  the  winter  his  window 
was  curtained  in  crimson  rep,  in  the  summer  in  white 


WORK  129 

lace.  There  was  a  red  cloth  on  the  round  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  With  a  little  taste  and  a  little 
money  spent  on  it  the  room  could  have  been  made 
charming.  As  it  was,  it  was  quiet  and  comfortable, 
and  always  clean  and  neat. 

Mrs.  Millett's  own  sitting-room,  into  which  Hugh 
was  never  invited  during  the  years  he  lived  under  her 
roof,  but  into  which  he  sometimes  peeped  out  of  cu- 
riosity, contained  the  more  intimate  possessions  of  her 
short  married  life.  Hugh  often  wondered  what  her 
past  history  had  been.  It  was  plain  that  it  had  con- 
tained a  tragedy,  but  he  did  not  discover  what  that 
tragedy  was  until  some  years  later.  Her  father's 
brain  had  given  way  suddenly  and  he  had  been  taken 
to  an  asylum,  but  not  before  he  had  disposed  of  his 
interest  in  a  substantial  business  for  a  very  inadequate 
sum.  There  was  a  lawsuit,  which  Mrs.  Millett  had 
won,  but  her  husband  died  immediately  afterwards,  and 
when  her  costs  were  paid,  and  a  sum  set  aside  for  her 
father's  keep,  there  was  next  to  nothing  left  for  her. 
When  Hugh  had  lived  with  her  for  some  years  her 
father  died,  and  she  wrote  him  a  note  asking  him  to 
find  other  rooms.  He  left  the  house  without  being 
given  an  opportunity  of  bidding  her  farewell,  and 
thenceforward  she  lived  alone,  in  comparatively  easy 
circumstances. 

In  his  little  room,  cosy  enough  in  the  winter  firelight, 
Hugh  spent  his  time  after  his  day's  work  was  done. 
He  read  a  great  deal,  sitting  mostly  at  the  table  with 
his  head  on  his  hand,  as  he  had  done  in  the  old  school- 


130  MANY   JUNES 

room  at  Foyle;  only  here  there  was  no  Anne  to  keep 
him  silent  company,  or  to  talk  in  the  intervals  of 
absorption.  He  practised  his  drawing  by  the  light  of 
the  gas,  his  thoughts  free  to  roam  where  they  would 
while  his  hand  was  busy.  At  ten  o'clock,  or  soon 
after,  he  put  everything  away  carefully  and  went  to 
bed.  From  the  time  he  left  his  office  in  the  evening 
until  he  returned  the  next  morning  he  spoke  to  no  one, 
except  a  few  words  to  the  maid  who  waited  on  him. 
He  never  went  to  a  theatre  or  to  an  entertainment 
of  any  sort  that  cost  money,  except  once  in  the  sum- 
mer of  his  first  year,  alone,  to  one  of  the  open-air  ex- 
hibitions then  being  held  at  South  Kensington,  and  he 
did  not  go  again  because  the  crowd  of  people,  most  of 
them  in  groups,  or  at  least  in  couples,  made  his  loneli- 
ness painfully  apparent.  He  did  go  to  the  picture  gal- 
leries- and  the  museums — many  of  his  Saturday  after- 
noons were  spent  in  this  way.  On  Sunday  he  went  once 
to  church,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do,  and  took 
a  long  walk,  very  often  to  Hampstead  Heath,  where 
he  had  been  with  Dunster.  He  was  always  glad  when 
Monday  morning  came  and  he  got  back  to  the  mod- 
erate companionship  of  his  office. 

He  had  two  things  to  look  forward  to  in  the  early 
days.  The  lesser  was  his  three  weeks'  holiday,  which 
he  was  to  have  in  June.  He  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  spend  it  at  Foyle.  He  engaged  rooms 
at  the  farmhouse  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village  where 
visitors  were  sometimes  accommodated  in  the  summer. 
His  and  Anne's  friend,  the  old  rector,  had  died  at  the 


WORK  131 

end  of  the  year,  just  before  the  Admiral,  and  Mrs. 
Bouverie  had  gone  to  live  at  Bournemouth,  so  both  the 
Manor  and  the  Rectory  would  be  changed;  but  he  had 
friends  amongst  the  farmers  and  the  cottagers,  and  he 
thought  there  would  be  a  kind  of  bitter  sweetness  in 
seeing  again  the  place  where  the  happy  years  of  his 
life  had  been  spent,  and  consolation  in  the  quiet  country 
and  the  free  air.  He  counted  the  days  until  his  time 
of  freedom  should  come.  Hisi  longing  to  get  away 
from  London  became  a  pain  as  the  days  lengthened,  and 
he  remained  shut  off  from  the  calendar  of  Nature. 
Foyle  would  put  him  in  touch  with  life  again,  and  for 
three  weeks  he  would  forget  the  monotonous  round  of 
labour  and  the  lonely  crowded  London  streets. 

And  Anne  and  her  husband  were  to  come  home  in 
October.  Anne  now  wrote  to  him  and  he  to  her  every 
week,  and  her  letters  were  his  chief  pleasure.  He 
gradually  formed  in  his  mind  a  picture  of  her  home 
and  the  life  she  led  in  it,  in  some  ways  so  like  the  life 
she  might  have  led  in  an  English  country  house,  in 
other  ways  so  different  that  he  was  continually  read- 
justing his  mental  picture,  as  one  detail  after  another 
was  added  from  her  letters.  He  had  thought  of  her 
first  of  all  as  living  in  the  midst  of  a  tropical  luxuriance, 
full  of  colour  and  movement.  Gradually  the  picture 
changed  as  he  learnt  of  the  seasons  of  stubborn  drought, 
of  the  great  expanses  of  burnt-up  land  surrounding  the 
station  buildings,  of  the  shadeless  trees,  the  deep 
silence.  But  there  remained  always  the  sense  of  space 
and  freedom,  and  life  on  a  large  and  patriarchal  scale. 


132  MANY  JUNES 

His  imagination  played  round  the  group  of  buildings 
as  a  centre  of  which  stood  the  house  which  was  Anne's 
home — a  house  of  deep  verandahs  and  great  airy  rooms, 
somewhat  sparsely  furnished,  surrounded  by  a  carefully 
irrigated  garden,  in  which  there  was  something  of  that 
riot  of  growth  and  colour  which  he  had  first  pictured 
as  springing  naturally  from  the  fertile  soil.  He  read 
of  the  numerous  groups  of  buildings  around  the  big 
house — separate  quarters  for  the  bachelors,  who  were 
learning  their  business  on  the  station;  separate  quar- 
ters for  guests,  of  whom  there  seemed  to  be  a  constant 
coming  and  going;  the  homes  of  those  employed  on  the 
run,  married  and  single;  and  the  stables,  sheds,  and 
stockyards — the  whole  settlement  as  big  as  a  small 
village,  planted  on  the  banks  of  a  sluggish  muddy 
river  in  the  midst  of  a  flat  plain  that  stretched  out 
of  sight  in  monotonous  regularity.  He  pictured  to 
himself  the  men  riding  off  after  an  early  breakfast  to 
the  yards  or  the  distant  grazing  grounds,  and  the 
women  going  about  their  household  duties,  making  the 
beds,  busying  themselves  in  the  kitchens  and  store- 
rooms, the  merry  cavalcades  of  the  afternoons,  the  pic- 
nics, the  calls  on  distant  neighbours,  the  lamplit  din- 
ner-table, round  which  these  men  and  women  of  English 
birth  kept  up  the  observances  of  their  easy  upbringing, 
while  the  still,  aromatic  air  of  the  southern  night  stole 
in  at  open  doors  and  windows.  He  read  of  the  bound- 
less hospitality  which  gave  shelter  and  food  and  a  wel- 
come to  the  stranger,  without  grudge  or  inquiry.  He 
caught  a  note  of  the  talk  that  passed  in  that  far-off 


WORK  133 

company,  talk  of  sheep  and  cattle  and  the  primal  life 
of  a  vast  pastoral  country.  He  treasured  up  every 
little  hint,  every  little  sketch  which  could  help  him  to 
a  vision  of  his  sister's  life  as  she  led  it  day  by  day, 
testing  every  detail  laboriously  and  again  and  again, 
until  he  thought  there  was  nothing  he  did  not  know 
about  her  and  her  surroundings. 

Of  his  own  life  he  was  reticent.  There  was  nothing 
to  tell.  His  letters  were  full  of  questions  about  hers, 
or  of  anticipations  of  her  homecoming.  His  first  dis- 
appointment came  when  her  visit  was  postponed  from 
the  summer  to  the  autumn,  his  second — mixed  with  a 
strange  new  excitement — when  she  told  of  the  expected 
birth  of  a  child,  and  a  further  postponement  of  her 
homecoming  until  the  following  summer.  A  year  to 
wait !  If  he  had  known  there  would  be  so  long  to  wait 
he  might  have  gone  out  to  Australia  and  been  with  her 
now. 

He  went  down  to  Foyle  in  the  middle  of  June.  As 
he  drove  from  the  station  along  the  well-remembered 
road,  in  the  cart  that  the  farmer  had  sent  to  meet 
him,  he  experienced  a  kind  of  bewildered  excitement, 
which  merged  into  pain  as  he  drove  into  the  village  and 
stopped  at  the  farmhouse  gates  instead  of  driving  on 
to  the  Manor.  The  place  was  so  familiar  and  yet  so 
strange.  The  farmer's  wife  gave  him  a  kindly  wel- 
come, and  added  to  her  words  of  greeting :  "  Ah,  if 
you'd  only  brought  Miss  Anne  with  you ! " 

He  walked  up  to  the  gate  of  the  Manor  after  tea 
and  met  some  of  the  villagers  he  knew.  AD  of  them 


134  MANY   JUNES 

/ 

asked  questions  about  Anne,  some  of  them  about  Dun- 
ster.  None  of  them  mentioned  the  Admiral,  nor  did 
any  of  them  seem  to  be  glad  to  see  him  for  his  own 
sake.  He  passed  the  Rectory  and  the  church,  from 
which  a  youngish  clergyman,  dressed  in  the  extreme 
of  Anglican  costume,  came  out  and  looked  at  him  as 
he  would  have  looked  at  any  other  stranger.  He 
came  to  the  lodge,  thatched  and  latticed  and  rose  cov- 
ered, where  Mr.  Williams  had  read  with  him  and  sub- 
dued his  own  longings,  and  looked  in  through  the  gate. 
He  had  a  glimpse  of  the  lawn  and  the  cedar  and  the 
lake.  Some  children  were  playing  on  its  banks  with 
the  old  punt  that  Dunster  had  repaired  for  him  and 
Anne.  He  knew  that  if  he  were  to  open  the  gate  and 
walk  up  the  drive  to  the  house  he  would  find  most 
things  unchanged  there,  for  he  had  been  told  that  the 
newcomers  had  brought  no  furniture  with  them,  but 
had  settled  down  in  the  house  just  as  it  was.  He 
could  scarcely  believe  that  he  was  so  near  everything 
that  would  have  spoken  to  him  of  the  past  years,  for 
he  felt  an  utter  stranger  as  he  stood  there  without  the 
gate  of  his  paradise.  His  diffidence  forbade  him  to  call 
on  the  people  who  now  occupied  his  home  and  ask  that 
he  might  see  it  again.  He  stood  there  for  a  long  time 
and  then  went  back  to  the  farmhouse.  The  next 
morning  he  went  away.  He  could  bear  no  longer  the 
painful  pleasure  to  which  he  had  looked  forward 
through  many  months. 

When  Hugh  had  been  at  work  in  his  office  about  a 
year  he  made  a  friend.     Charles  Kynaston  was  the  son 


WORK  135 

of  a  clergyman  working  in  a  poor  part  of  Liverpool, 
the  eldest  of  a  large  family  of  boys,  whose  spirits  a 
childhood  of  some  hardship  had  not  succeeded  in  dim- 
ming. He  was  a  merry  youngster,  with  tangled  fair 
hair  and  blue  eyes  and  a  gentle  manner,  not  exceed- 
ingly apt  at  the  work  he  had  now  been  put  to  do  at 
the  desk  next  to  Hugh's,  but  thinking  himself  lucky  to 
have  the  opportunity  of  doing  it,  and  showing  more  grit 
and  determination  to  learn  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected from  his  otherwise  careless  happy  demeanour. 
He  made  friends  with  Hugh  at  once,  taking  his  reserve 
by  storm,  and  conquering  it  at  once  with  the  exhibition 
of  a  good-will  that  was  not  to  be  denied.  "  Let's  go 
out  to  lunch  somewhere  together,"  he  said,  on  the  second 
day  of  his  clerkship.  "  I  can  only  spend  fourpence." 

That  sum  was  expended  on  a  roll  and  butter  and  a 
cup  of  coffee,  and  Kynaston  explained,  as  he  ate  it, 
that  he  could  have  done  very  well  with  a  steak  or  a 
chop,  as  a  morning's  work  made  him  ravenous,  but  that 
his  weekly  budget  did  not  permit  of  such  extrava- 
gance. 

"  I'm  living  on  my  screw,  you  know,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully, as  they  settled  themselves  at  a  small  marble- 
topped  table,  comfortably  alone  in  the  crowded  shop. 
"  It's  a  tight  fit,  but  I'll  manage  it  somehow.  Now  my 
cousin  George,  who  is  just  my  age,  is  at  Oxford — New 
College — and  has  an  allowance  of  five  hundred  a  year. 
That's  as  much  as  my  governor  has  to  bring  up  eight 
of  us  on;  and  that's  a  pretty  tight  fit  too,  I  can  tell 
you.  I  say,  where  do  your  people  live?  " 


136  MANY   JUNES 

"  I've  only  got  a  sister,"  said  Hugh.  "  She's  in 
Australia." 

Kynaston  cast  a  glance  at  him.  "  Oh,  then  you're 
all  alone  here,  like  me,"  he  said.  "  Where  do  you  hang 
out?" 

Hugh  told  him.  "  That  sounds  rather  swell,"  he 
said.  "  I've  got  diggings  in  Camden  Town.  Pretty 
beastly  they  are  too,  but  I  couldn't  afford  better  ones. 
I  don't  mind.  They  do  for  working  in,  and  I  work  like 
the  deuce." 

"  What  do  you  work  at  ?  "  asked  Hugh. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I've  got  a  typewriter.  My 
uncle  gave  it  to  me.  He's  a  good  old  bird.  He's 
got  a  great  big  place  in  Shropshire — I  used  to  go  and 
stay  there  sometimes  in  the  holidays — and  it  costs  him 
a  lot  to  keep  it  up,  so  he  can't  do  as  much  for  me  as 
he'd  like.  But  he  got  me  this  job,  and  he  thought  I'd 
be  able  to  make  a  bit  more  by  typewriting.  I'm 
swotting  at  it  like  anything.  I  made  nearly  three 
pounds  last  month.  You  see,  I'm  going  to  be  married 
as  soon  as  I  can  afford  it." 

"  Going  to  be  married !  "  exclaimed  Hugh. 

"  Yes.  Of  course  I'm  a  bit  young — I  suppose  you 
mean  that — and  so  is  she,  but  we  shall  stick  to  each 
other,  and  as  soon  as  I  get  a  hundred  a  year  we  shall 
start.  We  don't  mind  being  poor ;  we  know  we've  jolly 
well  got  to  be.  Look  here,  I  expect  we're  going  to  be 
pals  all  right,  I  don't  mind  showing  you  her  photo- 
graph." 

He  did  so,  with  a  glance  round  at  his  oblivious  fel- 


WORK  137 

low-lunchers,  and  Hugh  gazed  with  interest  on  the  face 
of  a  pretty  and  very  young  girl,  who,  if  the  photograph 
had  not  flattered  her,  seemed  to  have  something  of  the 
same  cheerfulness  and  courage  that  animated  her  lover. 

"  Ethel  Reresby  is  her  name,"  said  Kynaston,  as  he 
put  the  photograph  carefully  back  in  his  pocket. 
"  She's  a  brick,  and  I  expect  you'll  say  so  when  you 
see  her.  We  fixed  it  up  directly  I  got  this  job.  The 
governor  didn't  mind  a  bit,  no  more  did  the  mater. 
They  were  married  young  themselves,  and  they  say 
they've  never  had  reason  to  regret  it.  And  of  course 
it  was  worse  for  them  being  poor  than  for  me,  because 
both  of  them  were  brought  up  in  rather  big  country 
houses,  and  we've  always  been  hard  up  ever  since  we 
can  remember.  I  say,  were  you  hard  up  when  you 
were  a  boy  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Hugh,  with  some  hesitation. 

"  You  needn't  tell  me  anything  unless  you  want  to," 
said  Kynaston  generously,  but  with  obvious  disappoint- 
ment at  the  brevity  of  the  response.  "  I  know  some 
people  don't  like  talking  about  themselves.  I  do,  if  I 
can  get  any  one  to  listen  to  me."  And  he  laughed 
gaily. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  said  Hugh.  "  My  father 
was  a  sailor,  and  when  he  retired  we  went  to  live  in  a 
jolly  old  place  in  Dorsetshire.  I  think  he  had  plenty 
of  money  then,  but  directly  after  my  sister  was  mar- 
ried he  lost  it  all,  and  he  died  last  Christmas." 

Kynaston  received  this  somewhat  bald  narrative 
with  interest.  "  Yours  is  rather  a  rummy  name,"  he 


138  MANY  JUNES 

said.        "  Are   you   any   relation   to   Sir   Simeon   Le- 
lacheur?  " 

"  He's  dead,"  said  Hugh.  "  He  was  my  uncle." 
**  Dead,  is  he  ?  I'm  sorry.  By  George !  His  place 
is  better  than  my  uncle's.  We  all  went  to  Aldeburgh 
one  summer,  and  we  went  over  and  had  a  picnic  in  his 
park.  I  never  saw  such  a  place,  all  red  brick  and 
gables,  and  the  most  lovely  gardens.  Have  you  been 
there  often  ?  " 

"  No,  never.  He  and  my  father  were  not  friends." 
Kynaston's  sympathetic  face  fell.  "  That  must  have 
been  a  bore,"  he  said.  "  My  uncle  and  my  governor 
are  pals.  My  governor  will  have  the  living  at  Marrobel 
when  the  old  man  who  is  there  now  dies — if  he  wants  it, 
that  is.  But  he's  full  of  work,  and  he  likes  Liverpool. 
Still,  it  would  be  jolly  for  the  young  ones  to  live  in 
the  country.  I  say,  I  suppose  we  ought  to  be  getting 
back.  I  like  the  work  at  the  office,  you  know.  It's 
rather  interesting." 

A  few  days  later  Hugh  asked  Kynaston  to  spend  the 
evening  with  him.  -It  was  the  first  time  he  had  enter- 
tained any  one  in  his  life.  Kynaston  was  unenviously 
appreciative  of  his  quarters.  "  By  George !  "  he  said. 
"  This  is  slap-up.  Jolly  quiet  and  jolly  clean !  You 
should  see  my  digs !  But  I  don't  mind ;  they're  good 
enough  for  me  for  the  present.  I  suppose  you're 
pretty  rich,  Lelacheur?  " 

Hugh  told  him  what  his  income  was.  Reserve  was 
impossible  in  face  of  Kynaston's  expansive  confidences. 
"  I  daresay  it  doesn't  seem  much  to  you,"  Kynaston 


WORK  139 

said,  "  brought  up  like  you  were ;  but  if  I  had  it  I 
would  get  married  tomorrow,  and  think  myself  lucky. 
So  would  Ethel.  You  don't  mind  my  calling  her  Ethel 
to  you,  old  chap,  do  you?  You  see,  I've  got  no  one  to 
talk  to  about  it  now,  and  if  I  don't  talk  to  somebody  I 
feel  I  shall  burst." 

Hugh  said  that  he  did  not  mind,  and  they  sat  down 
on  the  sofa  to  continue  the  conversation.  Neither  of 
them  smoked ;  Kynaston  because  it  was  an  extravagance 
he  could  not  afford  in  face  of  his  plans  for  the  future, 
Hugh  because  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  do  so. 

"  I  think  you  would  find  it  rather  a  tight  fit,  as  you 
say,  to  get  married  on  a  hundred  and  twenty  a  year," 
said  Hugh. 

"  Tight  fit !  "  echoed  Kynaston.  "  I'm  going  to  get 
married  on  a  hundred  a  year.  A  hundred  and  twenty 
would  be  luxury.  Look  here,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 
I  didn't  know  how  the  governor  would  take  it  when  I 
first  broke  it  to  him.  You  see,  I'm  only  nineteen  and 
she's  not  quite  eighteen.  Well,  he  was  a  bit  surprised 
at  first,  and  said  he  must  think  it  over.  He  never  de- 
cides in  a  hurry,  the  governor,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  always  listens  to  what  you've  got  to  say.  After 
he'd  thought  it  over  for  a  day  or  so  he  said  he'd  no 
objection  to  the  engagement.  *  You  may  both  change 
your  minds,'  he  said,  *  and  if  you  do,  say  so  frankly. 
You  won't  be  able  to  marry  for  some  years  yet,  but  it 
won't  do  you  any  harm  to  be  engaged  in  the  mean- 
time, and  what  you've  got  to  do,  my  son,  is  to  keep 
straight  and  remember  you  haven't  only  got  yourself 


140  MANY   JUNES 

to  think  about.  You  must  spend  as  little  as  you  can, 
and  be  careful  of  every  penny.  Then,  if  you're  both 
of  the  same  mind  when  you  are  making  enough  to 
marry  on,  you'll  be  able  to  face  poverty  together  and 
know  what  you're  doing.  I  don't  think  you'll  ever 
make  much  money,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  both  be  happy  on  very  little.'  Now  wasn't 
that  a  good  way  of  putting  it,  Lelacheur?  I  ask  you 
as  a  friend." 

Hugh  thought  it  was  a  very  good  way  of  putting  it, 
and  Kynaston  was  encouraged  to  expatiate  further  on 
the  interest  it  gave  you  in  life  to  have  something  to 
look  forward  to.  "  That's  what  everybody  wants," 
he  said — "  something  to  look  forward  to.  Now  don't 
you  agree  with  me,  Lelacheur?  " 

Hugh  said  he  supposed  he  did.  His  own  life  would 
be  very  dull  if  he  could  not  look  forward  to  seeing  his 
sister  next  year. 

Kynaston  looked  doubtful  at  this.  "  That  will  be  a 
great  pleasure  for  you,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  But  you 
want  something  more  than  that,  you  know.  I  mean  to 
say,  that  won't  last  for  long.  You're  not  content  with 
this  life  for  its  own  sake,  are  you?  You  wouldn't  care 
to  go  to  the  office  every  day  and  come  home  here  by 
yourself  and  just  go  on  getting  a  little  better  off  every 
year." 

"  I  don't  see  much  use  in  troubling  about  it,"  said 
Hugh.  "  I've  got  to  do  it." 

Kynaston  looked  thoughtful.  "  Now  look  here,  Le- 
lacheur," he  said.  "  I  like  you;  I  took  to  you  at  once 


WORK  141 

the  moment  I  saw  you.  The  other  chaps  in  the  office 
are  all  right,  but  they  are  different  somehow.  It 
seems  good  enough  for  them  to  go  on  playing  at  figures 
all  their  lives,  and  as  for  me,  well,  I'm  not  much  good 
at  that,  but  I'm  no  good  at  all  at  anything  else,  so 
I've  got  to  grin  and  bear  it.  But  it  doesn't  seem  the 
right  thing  for  you.  I  remember  my  governor  saying 
once  in  a  sermon  that  everybody  ought  to  be  discon- 
tented. I  didn't  quite  understand  what  he  meant  at  the 
time,  but  somehow  it  seems  to  fit  you.  You  ought  not 
to  be  contented." 

Hugh  smiled  rather  bitterly.  "  If  I  began  to  en- 
courage myself  to  be  discontented,"  he  said,  "  I  should 
be  a  great  deal  more  unhappy  than  I  am." 

Kynaston  turned  this  saying  over  in  his  mind.  "Are 
you  unhappy  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  desire  for  self-revelation  surged  up  in  Hugh's 
mind  and  nearly  brimmed  over,  but  his  native  reserve 
and  the  shadow  of  a  whole  year  of  almost  speechless 
aloofness  drove  it  back.  "  Oh,  not  particularly,"  he 
said.  "  I  don't  mind  the  work,  and  when  I  come  back 
here  I  read,  and  paint  a  bit.  I  like  painting — or  trying 
to.  I  wish  I  could  have  been  an  artist." 

"  Ah,  there  you  are !  "  said  Kynaston  triumphantly. 
"  I  thought  there  was  something  you  could  do.  Let's 
have  a  look  at  your  things.  Do  you  mind?  " 

Hugh  showed  him  various  sketch-books.  Kynaston 
was  enthusiastic.  "  By  George !  I  never  saw  any- 
thing better,"  he  said.  "  Is  that  where  you  used  to 
live?  What  a  jolly  place !  Any  one  could  see  that  was 


142  MANY  JUNES 

meant  for  water.  My  dear  fellow,  if  you  want  to  be 
an  artist,  why  ever  don't  you?  I'm  not  much  of  a 
judge,  but  anybody  could  see  these  are  first  rate." 

Hugh  smiled.  "  I  don't  think  you  can  be  much  of 
a  judge,"  he  said.  "  Those  you  are  looking  at  are 
very  bad.  Perhaps  I  have  improved  a  bit  lately,  and 
anyhow  I  get  a  bit  of  pleasure  out  of  it.  But  I  know 
quite  well  I  could  not  make  a  living  as  an  artist." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  why  not.  You  could  if  you'd 
been  taught." 

"  Perhaps  I  might  have  been  able  just  to  scrape  up 
a  living.  I  don't  know.  I  do  know  that  if  I  could 
have  had  just  a  bit  of  teaching  when  my  father  lost 
his  money  I  would  have  been  pleased  to  risk  it.  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  would  have  done,  Kynaston.  I  would 
have  wandered  about  all  over  the  country,  painting, 
and  I  would  have  lived  on  as  little  as  ever  anybody 
could  live  on.  And  I  should  have  been  as  happy  as  a 
king.  I  love  the  country.  It  means  more  to  me  than 
I  can  tell  you.  Oh,  why  couldn't  I  have  done  some- 
thing of  that  sort  instead  of  living  like  this ! " 

He  threw  up  his  head  with  a  tragic  gesture.  Kyna- 
ston stared  at  him.  "  Do  you  feel  as  much  as  that 
about  it  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You  wouldn't  have  been  half 
so  comfortable  as  you  are  now." 

"  What  do  I  care  about  being  comfortable?  "  said 
Hugh.  "  Sometimes  I  feel  choked,  living  like  this  and 
going  into  the  city  every  morning.  Just  think  what  a 
life  like  that  would  have  been.  Nothing  to  tie  you  any- 
where! You  would  go  to  the  most  beautiful  places  in 


WORK  143 

the  world.  You  would  be  working  hard  all  day,  per- 
haps, but  you  would  enjoy  your  work  more  than  any- 
thing else.  If  only  I'd  said  something  to  my  father! 
I  was  thinking  of  it  all  the  time.  Everybody  talked  as 
if  being  poor  was  the  most  terrible  thing.  I  would 
much  rather  have  been  poor  and  lived  that  life  than 
have  been  rich." 

"  Well,  why  didn't  you?  "  asked  Kynaston  again. 

Hugh's  excitement  died  down  again  suddenly.  "  Oh, 
I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  He  wouldn't  have  listened  to 
me.  And  I  daresay  I  shouldn't  have  made  any  money 
at  all.  It  is  too  late  now,  anyhow.  Let's  put  the 
things  away." 

They  dined  together  later  and  spent  a  quiet  eve- 
ning, discussing  the  future  as  it  concerned  Kynaston 
and  the  past  as  it  concerned  Hugh.  Hugh  went  to  bed 
with  a  heart  lighter  than  it  had  been  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  pleasant  to  have  found  a  friend  to  talk  to. 


CHAPTER    XI 

TEN    YEARS    AFTER 

TEN  years  went  over  Hugh's  head,  and  Anne  did  not 
come  home.  A  boy  was  born  to  her  about  Christmas 
time.  Hugh  had  a  letter  from  George,  enclosing  a  few 
pencilled  lines  from  Anne,  who  told  him  that  the  child 
would  be  called  by  his  name.  It  was  delicate  from  the 
first,  and  Hugh,  whose  sympathy  with  his  sister's  hopes 
and  fears  was  kept  at  its  keenest  by  their  never-re- 
mitted correspondence,  was  deeply  grieved  when  he  re- 
ceived a  cable  in  the  early  spring  announcing  the  baby's 
death.  There  had  been  no  word  in  Anne's  letters  for 
some  time  about  coming  to  England.  A  year  after 
came  a  girl,  a  little  Anne,  whose  career  Hugh  followed 
with  absorbing  interest,  through  his  sister's  letters, 
from  babyhood  onwards.  She  was  a  quiet  child,  Anne 
wrote,  a  thorough  Lelacheur,  but  more  like  him  than 
herself.  Childish  ailments,  coming  at  the  most  incon- 
venient time,  prevented  the  journey  home  more  than 
once.  Then  came  a  bad  drought,  and  after  that  a 
bank  crisis,  which  kept  George  Blomfield  in  Australia, 
and  following  these  vicissitudes,  George's  father,  the 
old  squatter,  died,  full  of  years  and  honour,  and  the 
visit  was  delayed  once  more. 

In  the  meantime  Hugh's  life  was  coloured  more  by 
events  that  took  place  on  the  other  side  of  the  world 

144 


TEN   YEARS   AFTER  145 

than  by  any  changes  in  his  own  surroundings.  The 
three  weeks  of  his  yearly  holiday  stood  out  beyond 
anything  else  in  the  monotonous  months.  He  did  not 
go  again  to  Foyle,  nor  indeed  to  the  west  country. 
One  year  he  went  to  Scotland,  twice  to  the  Lakes,  to 
Wales,  to  Brittany,  and  later  to  Switzerland,  and  the 
Black  Forest.  He  sought  out  always  some  quiet  and 
beautiful  place,  and  stayed  there  until  it  was  time  to 
go  back  to  his  work,  never  travelling  about.  The  hills 
and  the  water  and  the  forests  soothed  and  consoled 
him,  but  during  the  first  few  days  he  spent  among  them 
the  monotony  of  the  dull  confined  life  he  had  escaped 
smote  him  more  than  at  other  times.  He  began  to 
look  forward,  after  many  years,  to  retiring  and  settling 
down  in  peace  amongst  woods  and  fields. 

His  friendship  with  Kynaston  continued  and  in- 
creased. He  never  visited  his  friend  at  his  poor 
apology  for  a  home,  but  Kynaston  dined  with  him  once 
a  week  and  they  were  much  together  at  other  times. 
Hugh  was  a  good  deal  better  off  than  his  friend.  He 
had  more  aptitude  for  the  work  they  were  both  en- 
gaged upon,  and  rose  to  a  position  of  some  responsi- 
bility sooner  than  he  had  had  any  reason  to  anticipate. 
Miss  Wilkinson,  meekly  resigned  to  her  lot,  died  about 
the  time  that  he  had  to  leave  Mrs.  Millett's  house,  and 
left  him  the  small  remains  of  her  former  fortune.  He 
moved  to  larger  rooms,  which  he  furnished  himself,  and 
for  a  bachelor  of  inexpensive  tastes  and  habits  was  well 
off.  Kynaston  struggled  mightily  to  rise  above  the 
level  of  poverty,  never  quite  succeeding.  He  watched 


146  MANY  JUNES 

Hugh's  rise  without  jealousy,  and  indeed  he  was  the 
happier  of  the  two,  and  his  ingenious  economies  gave 
him  more  pleasure  than  his  friend  gained  from  his  mod- 
erate prosperity.  He  worked  hard  out  of  office  hours 
at  his  typewriting.  The  men  and  women  engaged  in 
that  pursuit  were  fewer  then  than  they  have  since  be- 
come, and  he  had  as  much  work  as  he  could  accomplish. 

"  I've  had  to  refuse  a  good  order,"  he  told  Hugh  one 
evening  when  they  were  together.  "  I  can't  cram  in  an- 
other half-hour's  work.  I  worked  till  one  o'clock  last 
night  and  went  to  sleep  over  the  machine." 

An  idea  occurred  to  Hugh  which  he  thought  over 
carefully  for  a  day  or  two.  It  was  at  the  time  when 
he  had  received  the  money  left  him  by  his  aunt,  part  of 
which  he  had  expended  in  furnishing  his  rooms.  A 
week  later  he  proposed  to  Kynaston  that  he  should  lend 
him  money  to  start  a  typewriting  office,  in  which  he 
could  employ  salaried  assistants,  he  himself  super- 
intending them  and  busying  himself  in  acquiring  a 
further  connection. 

Kynaston  was  at  first  startled  and  then  excited  at 
the  suggestion.  "  I  believe  it  would  pay,"  he  said.  "  I 
could  get  a  lot  more  people  if  I  tried." 

"  You  would  have  to  give  up  your  work  at  the  office," 
Hugh  reminded  him. 

Kynaston  became  thoughtful.  "  That's  a  certainty, 
and  this  is  a  risk,"  he  said. 

Hugh  made  no  reply. 

"  There's  another  thing,"  said  Kynaston,  "  I'd  take 
a  loan  from  you,  old  chap,  with  as  much  pleasure  as 


TEN   YEARS   AFTER  147 

you  would  offer  it  to  me;  but  I  don't  care  much  about 
having  any  sort  of  a  debt.  It  complicates  matters." 
He  rubbed  his  fair  towzled  hair  perplexedly.  It  was 
plain  that  he  was  attracted  by  the  idea.  "  I  believe 
it  would  pay,"  he  said  again. 

"  I'm  pretty  sure  it  would,"  replied  Hugh.  "  Your 
heart  would  be  in  it,  for  one  thing,  and  you,  would 
be  working  for  yourself  and  not  for  somebody  else.'* 

"  Not  quite  for  myself,  either,"  put  in  Kynaston. 

"  Well,  no.  But  you  will  never  go  very  far  in  the 
office.  You  know  your  work  as  well  as  you  can,  but 
you  don't  care  for  it." 

"  And  I  should  care  for  this.  You're  quite  right, 
and  I'm  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you.  Why,  she  and 
I  could  do  it  together,  Lelacheur,  if  it  turned  out  well, 
and  we  could  get  married  on  it.  I  should  have  girls 
to  do  the  work  and  she  could  look  after  them.  It 
would  be  glorious.  But  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  sure." 

"  As  far  as  my  money  goes,"  said  Hugh,  "  you  can 
pay  me  five  per  cent,  interest  on  it.  I  should  be  glad 
to  have  it  out  at  that  as  long  as  it  was  worth  your 
while  to  keep  it  in  the  business.  There  would  be  no 
obligation.  It  would  suit  me  as  well  as  you." 

"  It's  most  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  Kynaston 
again ;  "  I'll  think  it  over  very  carefully." 

Finally  a  modified  arrangement  was  come  to.  Kyna- 
ston was  not  to  resign  his  clerkship  for  six  months, 
nor  to  take  an  office,  but  he  was  to  employ  as  many 
assistants,  working  at  their  own  homes,  as  he  could  find 
employment  for.  By  the  end  of  that  time,  if  he  had 


148  MANY   JUNES 

enough  regular  work  to  justify  the  plunge,  he  w&s  to 
take  it.  It  gave  Hugh  an  added  interest  in  life  to 
watch  the  progress  of  the  experiment,  and  to  encourage 
Kynaston  in  his  anxious  labours.  These  succeeded  as 
well  as  either  of  them  could  have  expected,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  appointed  period  of  probation  Kynaston  cut 
himself  adrift  from  the  Insurance  Company  and  opened 
his  own  modest  office.  Six  months  later  he  was 
married. 

Hugh,  at  this  time  twenty-six  years  of  age,  but  grave 
and  reserved  beyond  his  years,  played  the  part  of  bene- 
factor to  the  young  couple,  both  of  whom  regarded  him 
with  affection,  and  almost  with  reverence.  His  wedding 
present  was  a  cheque,  handsome  enough  for  one  of  his 
means,  that  only  a  sort  of  stately  tact  with  which  nature 
and  solitude  had  endowed  him  enabled  him  to  induce 
them  to  accept.  With  part  of  it  they  furnished  the  two 
rooms  in  which  they  were  to  begin  their  married  life 
and  with  part  they  paid  for  a  week's  honeymoon.  Hugh 
went  to  Liverpool  and  acted  as  his  friend's  best  man. 
He  was  treated  by  Kynaston's  father  and  mother  with 
great  consideration,  and  by  Kynaston's  many  brothers, 
who  were  all  of  a  very  lively  disposition,  as  a  guest  of 
honour,  but  not  one  with  whom  they  could  associate  on 
equal  terms.  When  he  had  seen  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom off  to  their  honeymoon  in  the  Lake  District  he 
went  back  to  London,  wishing  that  he  had  been  able 
to  take  a  more  active  part  in  the  diversions  of  the 
family,  and  wondering  whether  his  youth  were  already 
over  at  twenty-six. 


TEN   YEARS   AFTER  149 

Kynaston's  venture  prospered  moderately.  He  and 
his  young  wife  threw  themselves  into  it  with  enthusiasm 
and  were  as  happy  as  possible.  Before  their  first  child, 
to  whom  Hugh  stood  godfather,  was  born  they  moved 
into  a  tiny  house,  at  which  Hugh  was  a  constant  visitor, 
and  at  which  he  always  received  the  warmest  welcome. 
It  was  the  only  house,  with  the  exception  of  Kynaston's 
father's,  at  which  he  had  ever  visited  since  his  boy- 
hood, and  they  were  his  only  friends. 

At  last,  ten  years  after  Anne  had  left  England, 
Hugh  found  himself  one  afternoon  in  the  month  of 
June  waiting  on  the  platform  of  the  London  terminus 
where  the  train  would  presently  arrive  which  would 
bring  his  sister  to  him  from  her  long  voyage  across 
the  sea.  He  was  nearly  half-an-hour  too  early.  He 
paced  up  and  down  underneath  the  spread  of  the  iron 
girders  and  ties,  and  saw  the  blue  sky  like  a  wall  at 
the  far  end  of  the  arched  roof,  with  the  rows  of  steel 
rails  curving  away  under  it  between  the  houses.  He 
was  now  twenty-eight,  a  thin,  dark  young  man, 
dressed  with  the  inconspicuous  neatness  of  a  city  clerk, 
but  with  a  certain  grave  distinction  of  bearing  which 
his  well-worn  clothes  could  not  detract  from.  The 
people  who  presently  began  to  fill  the  platform,  waiting 
like  himself  to  greet  their  friends  from  the  other  side 
of  the  world,  all  looked  at  him  as  he  walked  up  and 
down,  and  some  of  them  wondered  audibly  who  he 
might  be. 

The  hands  of  the  big  clock   crept  on;  groups  of 


160  MANY  JUNES 

porters  strolled  in  a  leisurely  way  on  to  the  platform 
and  stood  talking  at  its  edge;  one  of  the  signals  on 
the  bridge  across  the  rails  fell ;  an  engine  appeared 
round  the  curve  and  rolled  slowly  in  towards  them 
with  its  heavy  freight;  the  train  came  to  a  standstill, 
and  instantly  there  was  a  scene  of  bustle  and  greeting. 
Hugh's  heart  beat  violently ;  he  could  not  see  Anne  or 
her  husband  in  the  crowd,  and  he  had  an  unaccountable 
impulse  to  turn  and  go  away  before  they  should  show 
themselves.  Then  he  saw  Anne  coming  towards  him 
with  outstretched  hands — the  old,  dear  Anne,  with  her 
dark  eyes  smiling  at  him  and  her  mouth  trembling 
a  little.  The  ten  long  years  of  separation  were  bridged 
by  their  embrace,  and  they  were  as  close  together  as  if 
they  had  never  been  parted.  George  Blomfield,  bronzed 
and  bearded,  and  a  good  deal  bigger  than  when  he  had 
last  seen  him,  gave  him  a  mighty  grasp  of  the  hand. 
By  his  side  was  a  little  girl,  who  looked  up  at  Hugh 
gravely  out  of  her  mother's  eyes,  and  took  her  hand 
out  of  her  father's  and  put  it  into  his. 

Hugh  drove  with  them  to  their  hotel,  where  he  was 
to  stay  as  long  as  they  should  be  in  London. 

"  We  sha'n't  be  here  long,"  said  George,  as  they 
drove  through  the  streets.  "  We  want  the  green  fields. 
Anne  has  fixed  up  a  little  surprise  for  you.  Come,  out 
with  it,  Anne." 

"  I  will  tell  him  when  we  get  to  the  hotel,"  said  Anne. 

George  bore  the  child  away  when  they  were  once  in 
the  rooms  that  had  been  engaged  for  them,  and  left 
the  brother  and  sister  alone  together. 


TEN   YEARS   AFTER  151 

"  Oh,  Hugh !  "  said  Anne,  taking  both  his  hands  in 
hers,  "  it  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you  looking  so  old 
and  grave." 

"  Not  grave  now  that  I  have  you  with  me,"  answered 
Hugh. 

"  It  has  been  so  much  worse  for  you  than  for  me," 
said  Anne.  "  I  have  had  George  and  my  little  girl, 
and  you  have  had  nobody." 

"  I  have  had  you.  You  have  never  been  far  from 
my  thoughts,  and  your  happiness  has  been  mine,  as  well 
as  your  sorrows." 

Anne's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "My  poor  little  baby 
boy,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  I  never  should  get  over 
that.  But  little  Anne  came  to  make  amends,  and  I 
have  got  the  best  husband  in  the  world.  Yes,  I  have 
been  happy,  and  now  that  I  have  come  back  to  you 
for  a  time  I  want  nothing  else  in  the  world.  We  will 
live  the  old  days  over  again,  Hugh." 

"  Not  at  Foyle,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Hugh. 

Anne  smiled  at  him.  "  Yes,  at  Foyle,"  she  said. 
"  That  was  my  secret.  George  has  taken  Foyle  for 
the  summer,  and  you  are  to  come  down  there  with  us  on 
Saturday.  He  arranged  it  by  mail  through  an  agent, 
and  we  determined  to  tell  you  nothing  about  it  till  it 
was  all  settled." 

Hugh,  alone  in  his  bedroom  dressing  for  dinner,  found 
himself  whistling.  He  broke  off  in  consternation  at 
himself.  He  had  not  done  such  a  thing  for  ten  years. 

They  all  went  to  a  theatre  that  evening.  Little 
Anne,  sitting  between  Hugh  and  her  father,  looked 


152  MANY  JUNES 

around  her  in  open-eyed  astonishment,  and  during  the 
first  act  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  unaccountable  be- 
ings on  the  stage  before  her.  During  the  interval 
Hugh  answered  her  many  questions,  which  seemed  to 
show  that  the  dramatist  had  not  made  his  purpose  as 
clear  as  he  might  have  done.  Little  Anne,  however,  ap- 
peared satisfied  with  her  uncle's  explanations,  and,  at 
the  beginning  of  the  second  act,  leaned  her  head  against 
his  arm  and  went  quietly  to  sleep. 

**  She  has  taken  wonderfully  to  you,"  whispered 
Anne,  in  the  darkness. 

Hugh  made  no  reply,  but  he  saw  little  of  the  play 
during  that  act,  his  heart  was  so  full  of  a  new  sen- 
sation. 

When  Anne  had  put  the  child  to  bed  Hugh  went  in 
to  say  good-night  to  her.  She  put  her  arms  round  his 
neck  and  kissed  him.  "  Are  you  going  to  stay  with 
us,  Uncle  Hugh?"  she  asked.  Being  satisfied  on  this 
point,  she  said :  "  I'm  very  glad,"  and  went  imme- 
diately to  sleep. 

Two  days  later  they  travelled  down  to  Foyle  to- 
gether. Little  Anne  sat  by  Hugh  in  the  train,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window.  She  asked  him  many  ques- 
tions: about  the  rain  that  was  falling  heavily,  and 
whether  he  thought  it  would  stop  when  they  reached 
the  end  of  their  journey;  about  the  long  miles  of  houses 
and  suburbs  ;  about  the  greenness  of  the  trees  and  fields, 
which  she  called  paddocks,  remarking  gravely  on  their 
smallncss ;  about  the  country  roads  and  hedgerows; 
about  the  tents  at  Aldershot ;  about  .the  towns  and  vil- 


TEN   YEARS   AFTER  153 

lages  through  which  they  passed,  and  especially  about 
the  tunnels.  She  spoke  quietly  and  slowly,  but  as  if 
she  expected  her  inquiries  to  receive  serious  attention. 
Her  father  teased  her  lovingly,  and  every  now  and  then 
summoned  her  to  a  lionlike  embrace.  She  rebuked  him 
for  his  foolish  speeches,  kissed  him  when  he  hugged 
her,  and  then  returned  to  her  seat  by  Hugh  and  again 
took  up  the  thread  of  her  observations.  Anne  chatted 
gaily.  She  seemed  very  little  older  than  when  she  had 
first  travelled  down  to  Foyle  with  her  father,  but  she 
would  fall  suddenly  silent,  and  her  eyes  told  tales  as 
she  looked  at  her  brother  and  her  little  daughter. 

The  train  drew  up  at  Southampton.  The  rain  had 
ceased  and  patches  of  blue  showed  through  the  clouds. 
There  were  the  mudflats  and  the  children  playing  on 
them,  the  yachts  at  anchor  and  the  salt  smell  of  the 
sea.  "  This  is  where  Uncle  Hugh  and  I  met  when  we 
first  went  down  to  live  at  Foyle  together,"  she  told  the 
child.  "  Do  you  remember,  Hugh?  " 

Hugh  looked  at  her  without  speaking.  It  was  very 
plain  that  he  remembered. 

George  captured  the  child,  and  Anne  and  Hugh 
talked  together  as  they  went  on  through  the  deep 
glades  and  across  the  heaths  of  the  New  Forest,  with  a 
stop  at  Bournemouth,  and  on  again  through  the  resin- 
ous odour  of  pines,  past  the  shining  expanse  of  Poole 
Harbour,  and  into  the  beautiful  Dorsetshire  country, 
which  has  been  made  to  live  as  no  other  county  in  Eng- 
land has  been  made  to  live,  by  the  hand  of  a  master. 
"  Do  you  remember  this  ?  "  they  said  to  one  another? 


154  MANY   JUNES 

and :  "  How  that  brings  it  all  back !  "  Once  again  they 
were  boy  and  girl  together,  with  no  sorrows  saddening 
their  memory,  and  no  shadow  from  the  future  lying 
across  their  path. 

They  came  in  the  late  afternoon  to  Lydmouth, 
perched  in  a  hollow  of  the  cliffs  facing  the  sea  and  the 
broad  sands,  and  drove  through  the  well-remembered 
country  to  Foyle.  The  same  waggonette  in  which  they 
had  first  made  the  journey  carried  them  quickly  along 
through  rain-washed  air,  and  the  familiar  scents  and 
sounds  greeted  them  as  they  passed  one  unchanged 
landmark  after  another.  Anne's  laughing  pleasure 
came  very  near  to  tears  as  they  drove  over  the  bridge, 
and  saw  the  river  and  the  trees  and  the  thatched  cot- 
tages of  Foyle  before  them.  The  child  gazed  about 
her  wonderingly.  She  sat  with  one  of  her  hands  in 
Hugh's,  the  other  in  her  mother's,  and  seemed  to  be 
in  accord  with  everything  they  felt.  They  came  to 
the  Manor,  unaltered  within  and  without.  The  sense 
of  home-coming  was  almost  bewildering  as  they  stood 
in  the  cool  hall  and  saw  the  half-forgotten  but  all  fa- 
miliar things  around  them. 

"  You  two  go  and  look  round  the  house,"  said 
George.  "  Little  Anne  and  I  will  go  down  to  the  lake 
and  see  if  we  can  find  the  old  punt." 

Anne  and  Hugh  went  through  the  old  rooms  to- 
gether. When  they  came  to  the  schoolroom  they  stood 
silent  and  looked  about  them.  It  was  rather  shabbier 
than  of  old,  but  scarcely  anything  had  been  altered  in 
it.  The  furniture  was  the  same  and  the  carpet  and 


TEN   YEARS   AFTER  155 

the  wallpaper.  They  called  each  other's  attention  to 
little  things.  There  was  the  smoke  stain  on  the  old- 
fashioned  marble  mantelpiece;  the  first  half  of  Anne's 
name  scratched  on  the  window-pane; x the  same  old 
cavernous  easy-chair,  always  shabby  but  now  almost 
disreputable,  for  the  possession  of  which  they  had 
sometimes  struggled  years  before.  It  was  almost  im- 
possible to  believe  that  ten  years  had  passed  since  they 
had  last  seen  it  all.  The  appeal  of  inanimate  things 
was  never  stronger.  They  stood  together  at  the  win- 
dow, looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  laughed  for 
pleasure. 

Hugh's  happiness  was  not  without  alloy.  "  If  it 
could  only  last !  "  he  said. 

"  We  won't  look  forward,"  said  Anne.  "  We  will 
enjoy  every  hour  of  it  while  it  does  last.  I  would  have 
made  the  long  journey  for  only  an  hour  of  this."  And 
she  laughed  again,  looking  out  of  the  window  to  where 
her  husband  and  her  little  child  were  standing  on  the 
lawn  by  the  water. 


CHAPTER   XII 

LITTLE    ANNE 

*  I  THINK,  you  know,  Uncle  Hugh,  that  jou  and  I  are 
like  the  old  people,  and  mother  and  father  are  the 
children." 

Hugh  and  little  Anne  were  sitting  in  the  old  chair 
in  the  schoolroom,  with  the  window  open  and  the  cur- 
tains moving  gently  in  a  light  June  breeze.  They  often 
sat  together  like  this  and  talked  quite  gravely  about 
many  things.  He  could  never  tell  her  enough  about 
her  mother's  girlhood,  and  she  pressed  for  the  smallest 
details.  What  was  she  wearing  when  they  did  this  or 
that?  Was  it  before  she  put  her  hair  up,  or  after? 
Did  she  run  when  they  went  down  to  the  lake  together, 
or  only  walk?  She  had  the  same  stories  over  and  over 
again,  and  if  he  altered  them,  in  however  small  a  par- 
ticular, she  corrected  him.  She  would  tell  him  about 
her  life  in  Australia,  showing  the  same  meticulous  ac- 
curacy as  to  details  as  she  demanded  from  him.  **  It 
is  all  so  different,  and  you  have  never  been  there,**  she 
said  once.  "  But  you  seem  to  know  all  about  it,  Uncle 
Hugh." 

"You  see,  I  was  quite  alone,"  said  Hugh,  "and  of 
course  I  thought  a  great  deal  about  the  people  I  loved, 
and  liked  to  hear  what  they  were  doing." 

"  We  talked  a  great  deal  about  you  too,  mother  and 
156 


LITTLE   ANNE  157 

I,"  said  little  Anne,  "  and  often  wished  you  were 
there." 

The  child  would  sit  on  his  knee,  nestling  up  to  him. 
She  was  not  demonstrative,  neither  was  he.  He  never 
devoured  her  little  face  with  kisses,  as  her  father  did  a 
hundred  times  a  day ;  but  they  were  always  satisfied  with 
one  another's  company  and  were  together  for  hours  like 
old  and  tried  friends.  She  had  inherited  her  mother's 
sweetness  of  disposition,  but  was  without  her  gaiety  and 
restlessness  of  mind.  Sometimes  her  father  tried  to 
romp  with  her,  thinking  it  was  unnatural  that  she 
should  be  so  grave  and  quiet.  She  entered  into  his 
mood  as  far  as  she  could,  and  without  impatience,  but 
when  he  left  off  playing  with  her  she  went  back  to  her 
book  or  her  long,  intimate  confidences.  Hugh's  sub- 
dued but  never-failing  sympathy  with  her  quaint 
thoughts,  and  his  quiet  way  of  bearing  her  company, 
drew  them  more  and  more  together. 

Anne,  during  those  early  days  at  Foyle,  seemed  to 
throw  off  her  years  of  motherhood.  She  was  a  happy 
girl  again,  and  ran  laughing  and  singing  through  the 
rooms  of  the  old  house  and  the  beautiful  gardens,  as  if 
no  time  had  passed  since  she  had  left  them.  But  it 
was  with  her  husband  she  laughed  and  played,  and  not 
with  her  brother.  To  George  Blomfield,  Foyle  was  as 
much  a  place  of  happy  memories  as  to  her  or  Hugh. 
Very  often  he  and  Anne  were  together  long  hours  of 
the  day,  while  Hugh  and  little  Anne  talked  quietly 
apart. 

Kynaston  and  his  wife  came  down  for  a  few  days. 


158  MANY  JUNES 

Kynaston,  after  a  glance  round  at  the  situation  in 
which  he  found  himself,  and  a  few  minutes  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  host  and  hostess,  threw  off  the  weight  of 
his  struggles  against  poverty  which,  owing  to  the  con- 
current growth  of  his  business  and  his  family,  remained 
about  the  same  as  it  had  always  been,  and  became  a 
merry-hearted  boy  again.  It  was  necessary  to  his  en- 
joyment that  his  wife  should  share  it  in  equal  propor- 
tion, and  she  did  so,  in  a  rather  more  subdued  fashion. 
With  arms  entwined  they  stood  before  Hugh  on  the 
lawn,  waiting  to  be  summoned  to  dinner,  and  told  him 
they  had  never  been  in  so  delightful  a  place,  nor  met 
so  entirely  agreeable  people  as  his  sister  and  brother- 
in-law. 

Hugh  went  up  with  Anne  after  dinner  to  look  at 
the  child  sleeping,  as  his  custom  was.  Standing  by  her 
little  bed,  with  the  night-light  flickering  dimly  on  walls 
and  ceiling,  Anne  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
said  in  a  whisper :  "  Hugh,  I  thought  you  were  to  tell 
me  everything  about  yourself  in  your  letters  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  so,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Not  about  your  goodness  to  those  nice  people. 
You  don't  know  how  gratefully  they  talk  about  you. 
They  say  they  owe  everything  to  you." 

Hugh  turned  away  awkwardly.  "  I  invested  some 
money,  which  is  bringing  in  a  very  good  return,"  he 
said.  "That  was  all." 

"  Dear  Hugh,  I  love  you  for  it  all,"  she  said,  "  and 
for  all  your  goodness  and  sweetness  to  little  Anne.  I 
always  used  to  lead  you  in  the  old  days,  didn't  I?  But 


LITTLE   ANNE  159 

I  look  up  to  you  now  as  ever  so  much  wiser  and  better 
than  I  am." 

Hugh  smiled  at  her.  "  Better  than  you,  my  dear?  " 
he  said.  *"  You  must  not  upset  all  my  ideas,  Anne." 

She  put  her  arm  through  his  and  they  went  out  of 
the  room  together,  closing  the  door  softly  behind  them. 

"  I  wish  you  could  be  happy  as  George  and  I  are," 
she  said,  "  and  those  two  dear  cheerful  people.  I 
wish  you  could  have  children  of  your  own;  you  would 
love  them  dearly." 

"  I  shouldn't  love  them  more  than  I  love  little  Anne," 
he  said. 

The  long  June  days  passed  away.  The  hay  was  cut 
and  carried,  the  roses  bloomed.  The  Kynastons  went, 
and  a  few  other  guests  came  and  went  too.  They 
amused  themselves  about  the  house  and  garden,  and 
rode  and  drove  over  the  country,  sailed  at  Lydmouth, 
and  were  merry  and  light-hearted,  or  merely  content, 
as  their  several  natures  impelled  them  to  be.  There 
was  hardly  ever  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  and  the  long  days 
were  filled  with  out-of-door  occupations.  "  Except 
the  year  we  were  married,"  said  George,  "  this  is  the 
best  holiday  I  have  ever  had  in  my  life,"  and  he  enjoyed 
every  hour  of  it.  "  If  I'm  rich  enough  in  twenty  years' 
time,"  he  said  again,  "  I'll  buy  Foyle,  and  Anne  and  I 
will  come  and  end  our  days  here.  There  is  no  place 
like  it." 

George  and  Anne  talked  together  one  night,  when 
they  had  been  at  Foyle  for  rather  more  than  a  fort- 
night, and  Hugh's  time  with  them  was  coming  to  an  end. 


160  MANY  JUNES 

"  I  wish  he  could  have  stayed  with  us  for  the  whole 
summer,"  Anne  said. 

"  He  will  come  down  every  week-end,"  said  George. 
"  Poor  chap,  it  must  be  devilish  dull  for  him  alone  in 
those  stuffy  rooms." 

"  He  is  nearly  always  alone.  I  wish  he  had  come 
out  to  us  when  father  died.  He  would  have  been  hap- 
pier, I  believe." 

"  He's  an  obstinate  beggar.  Old  Dunster  couldn't 
move  him." 

"  Mr.  Kynaston  says  he  is  wonderfully  good  at  the 
work  he  has  to  do:  he  has  got  on  faster  than  anybody 
else  in  the  office." 

"  I  don't  blame  him  for  sticking  to  it,  but,  by  Jove, 
what  a  life !  I  would  rather  hump  my  swag  in  the 
Bush  than  get  rich  over  his  job." 

"  But  Hugh  isn't  like  you,  George.  He  knew  we 
should  be  very  glad  to  have  him  with  us,  but  he  knew, 
too,  the  life  in  the  Bush  wouldn't  have  suited  him. 
I  respect  him  for  making  up  his  mind  as  he 
did." 

"  People  seem  to  think  that  work  on  a  big  station 
means  nothing  but  riding  about  on  a  horse  and  sleep- 
ing under  a  gum-tree.  I  wish  it  did.  There's  a  good 
deal  more  office  work  than  I  care  for,  and  he  could 
just  as  well  have  done  some  of  that.  I  should  like  to 
have  him  there.  Can't  you  get  him  to  come  back  with 
us?" 

"  I  wonder  if  he  would,  George.  Oh,  I  should  be 
so  glad!" 


LITTLE   ANNE  161 

"  So  should  I.  We'd  cheer  him  up.  I  hate  to  see  a 
fellow  of  his  age  looking  like  an  old  man." 

"  Poor,  dear  Hugh !  He  has  a  fine  character,  George. 
Look  how  the  Kynastons  spoke  of  him.  And  he  wasn't 
meant  to  live  the  dull  lonely  life  he  lives  now.  See 
how  sweet  he  is  with  little  Anne!  He  is  different  alto- 
gether from  what  he  was  when  we  first  came  home." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  He  doesn't  eat  much, 
and  he  says  he  doesn't  sleep  well." 

"  I  know  he  is  not  very  well  just  now.  I  mean  that 
he  is  different  in  mind.  He  has  lost  that  sad  anxious 
look." 

"  He  must  be  doing  very  well,  now.  Of  course  I 
couldn't  give  him  anything  like  what  he  is  making  here. 
And  he'll  go  further  still,  from  what  Kynaston  told  me. 
Perhaps  it's  a  pity  to  persuade  him  to  give  it  up." 

"  I  will  see  what  he  says,  at  any  rate.  I  should  love 
to  have  him  with  us ;  and  I  don't  know  what  little  Anne 
will  do  if  we  go  away  and  leave  her  dear  uncle 
behind." 

Anne  talked  to  Hugh  the  next  afternoon.  They  sat 
in  the  old  log  hut  on  the  island,  looking  over  the  water 
and  the  lawn  towards  the  house.  She  had  no  need  to 
press  him.  Directly  she  mentioned  her  wish  he  said: 
"Do  you  and  George  still  want  me,  Anne?" 

"  Oh,  Hugh !  "  she  answered,  "  we  want  you  more 
than  ever.  It  will  be  dreadful  to  go  back  and  leave  you 
behind." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  over  it.  I 
am  very  tired  of  my  life  here,  and,  after  being  with 


162  MANY  JUNES 

you  again,  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  going  back  to 
my  old  ways.  It  might  be  ten  years  before  you  came 
over  again,  and  little  Anne  would  be  grown  up." 

"  Come  back  with  us,  Hugh.  I  don't  know  what 
little  Anne  would  do  without  you  now.  You  ought  to 
have  been  with  us  all  these  years." 

"  I  don't  think  that.  But  things  are  different  now. 
I  have  made  my  own  way.  I  have  saved  some  money 
and  should  not  be  dependent.  And,  from  what  George 
has  told  me  of  his  occupations,  there  might  be  some 
work  I  could  do." 

"  Oh  yes ;  he  said  so  last  night.  Hugh,  you  will 
come,  won't  you?  " 

"  I  am  a  cautious  fellow,  you  know,  Anne.  I  must 
think  things  over  very  carefully." 

"  But,  dear  Hugh,  what  is  there  to  think  over?  We 
shall  be  so  happy  all  together:  George  and  you  and 
I  and  little  Anne.  I  am  sure  you  can't  be  happy  in 
London,  all  alone." 

"  I  am  rather  afraid  of  happiness.  I  have  had  it 
before  me  once  or  twice  in  my  life,  and  it  has  come 
suddenly  to  an  end." 

"  Oh !  I  know,  Hugh.  And  you  are  so  young  still. 
But  you  would  be  happy  with  us,  wouldn't  you?  And 
we  should  so  love  to  have  you — until  you  married  and 
had  a  home  of  your  own." 

"  I  shouldn't  want  to  marry,  Anne.  That  is  what 
will  make  it  possible  for  me  to  come  to  you,  if  I  do 
decide  to  come.  I  shall  be  able  to  make  my  own  living, 
and  that  is  all  I  want.  I  will  talk  to  George  and  see 


LITTLE   ANNE 

what  he  suggests  in  the  way  of  work.  I  want  to  come 
back  with  you,  but  I  can't  quite  make  up  my  mind. 
Something  seems  to  be  pulling  me  back." 

"  You  are  not  very  well,  Hugh.  You  must  not  go 
back  to  London  till  I  get  you  quite  right.  There  is 
nobody  to  look  after  you  there.  You  don't  see  things 
in  their  right  colours  when  you  are  out  of  health. 
There  is  nothing  to  hold  you  back.  Talk  to  George 
and  settle  everything  tonight.  I  believe  when  you  have 
made  up  your  mind  you  will  wonder  why  you  ever 
hesitated.  And  you  will  give  up  your  work  in  London 
at  once,  won't  you?  Then  you  can  be  here  with  us 
till  we  sail,  and  I  will  look  after  you." 

He  looked  at  her  affectionately.  "  The  same  dear 
adventurous  kind-hearted  girl  as  ever !  "  he  said.  "  I 
don't  think  I  shall  want  much  looking  after.  Your 
extravagant  housekeeping  has  upset  me  a  trifle.  That 
is  all." 

He  talked  to  George  that  evening  after  dinner.  It 
was  a  lovely  night,  warm  and  still.  The  dining-room 
window  was  open  and  the  moths  flitted  round  the 
candles  on  the  dinner-table.  George  expressed  himself 
with  the  heartiest  good-will.  "  I  will  find  you  plenty  of 
work,"  he  said.  "  You  can  put  out  of  your  mind  once 
for  all  any  idea  of  living  on  us.  A  man  with  your 
training  will  be  of  the  greatest  possible  use.  By  Jove ! 
won't  old  Dunster  be  pleased !  And  Anne  and  the  kiddy 
too.  Let's  go  and  tell  her." 

They  went  out  on  the  terrace,  where  Anne  was  sit- 
ting, and  talked  over  their  plans  until  late  at  night, 


164  MANY  JUNES 

picturing  the  life  they  would  lead  together  in  the  far- 
off  land  under  the  Southern  Cross,  wandering  far  in 
spirit  from  English  Foyle,  lying  white  and  still  behind 
them  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 

They  went  together  up  to  the  room  where  the  child 
was  sleeping  in  her  little  white  bed.  "  She  will  be  so 
happy  when  we  tell  her,"  whispered  Anne,  shading  the 
light  from  her  darling's  face.  Hugh  bent  down  and 
kissed  her  softly  on  the  cheek.  She  stirred  in  her  sleep 
and  whispered  "  Good-night." 

Hugh  went  to  bed  light  at  heart,  but  feeling  strangely 
tired  and  ill,  in  spite  of  his  happy  thoughts.  The  next 
day  he  was  lying  in  his  room  stricken  down  with 
typhoid  fever.  Foyle  Manor,  for  all  its  memories  and 
its  smiling  face,  had  played  them  false,  and  he  lay 
between  life  and  death  for  many  weeks. 

Struggling  back  feebly  to  health  and  reason  after 
long  dark  days,  Hugh  became  aware  of  the  constant 
presence  of  his  sister.  Hovering  on  the  borderland  be- 
tween the  unrealities  projected  by  a  mind  striving  to 
regain  its  balance,  and  the  soothing  influence  of  conva- 
lescence, he  had  constantly  mistaken  her  for  the  little 
child,  her  namesake.  She  was  so  quiet,  so  unlike  the 
Anne  of  old  days,  and  when  at  last  he  regained  full 
consciousness,  and\saw  her  thin  pale  face,  with  the  dark 
eyes  full  of  pain  and  trouble,  a  sense  of  agonizing  loss 
pierced  him,  even  through  the  apathy  of  his  weakness. 
She  kissed  him  gently  and  hid  her  face.  "  Little  Anne," 
he  whispered,  surprised  to  find  himself  so  weak  that  he 


LITTLE   ANNE  165 

could  hardly  articulate.     Then  she  turned  away  from 
him  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

They  could  not  keep  the  news  from  him  for  long. 
The  grass  was  already  growing  over  the  grave  of 
little  Anne,  his  friend,  in  the  green  churchyard  of  Foyle* 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE    CHUBTONS 

ON  a  cold  dark  day  in  November,  Hugh  stood  on  the 
quayside  and  watched  his  sister  and  her  husband  slowly 
moving  away  from  him  in  the  big  ship  which  was  to  take 
them  back  to  Australia.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his 
sister,  a  sad  figure  in  black,  crying  unrestrainedly,  as 
the  great  steamer  was  warped  slowly  out  into  mid- 
stream. Then  when  he  could  see  her  no  longer  he 
turned  and  went  back  to  his  dreary  rooms,  too  sick  at 
heart  to  care  what  became  of  him,  or  whether  he  lived  or 
died,  while  Anne  and  her  husband,  fortunate  at  least  in 
one  another's  love,  were  steaming  south,  to  make  the 
best  of  a  childless  home. 

Hugh  went  back  to  his  work  in  the  Insurance  office, 
living  desolately  through  days  and  months,  each  as  dull 
and  dreary  as  the  last.  When  his  recovery  had  been  as- 
sured, his  brother-in-law  had  reopened  the  subject  of 
his  future  plans,  and  pressed  him  still  to  go  out  to 
Australia  with  them. 

"  I  can't  do  it,  George,"  he  had  said,  and  would  not 
let  himself  be  persuaded.  Anne,  in  the  numbness  of  her 
own  grief,  had  not  been  able  to  rouse  herself  to  combat 
his  resolution,  and  they  sailed  away  without  him. 
Poor,  loving,  light-hearted  Anne,  so  cruelly  bereft;  he 
never  saw  her  again. 

166 


THE   CHURTONS  167 

Such  utter  desolation  as  Hugh  felt  for  months  after 
this  second  downfall  of  all  his  hopes  could  not  last  for 
ever.  Time  and  the  common  round  of  daily  duties 
slowly  healed  the  wound,  and  his  life  went  on  much 
as  before — the  monotonous  days  bringing  him  neither 
good  nor  evil.  He  thought  constantly  of  the  dead 
child.  He  carried  a  picture  of  her  about  with  him,  and 
looked  at  it  when  he  was  alone.  A  photograph  of  her 
and  her  mother,  which  had  been  on  his  mantelpiece  for 
two  or  three  years,  he  put  away  in  a  drawer  of  his 
writing-table,  which  he  locked.  Twice  a  year  he  went 
down  to  Foyle  and  visited  her  grave — once  at  Christ- 
mas time,  when  it  was  cold  and  bare,  and  again  at 
Easter,  when  flowers  were  growing  about  it.  His  grief 
for  her  loss  presently  merged  into  a  yearning  for  the 
love  of  home  and  children.  The  subdued  sense  of  lone- 
liness with  which  he  had  lived  during  the  first  ten  years 
of  his  manhood  was  sharpened  into  a  definite  longing. 
When  the  pain  of  his  bereavement  had  died  down  he 
was  still  unhappy.  Outwardly  his  life  was  little 
changed.  He  did  his  tale  of  work  and  prospered  in 
it.  He  read  more  than  ever.  After  little  Anne's 
death  he  did  not  touch  his  painting  for  a  year.  Then 
when  he  went  to  Switzerland  in  August  he  took  it  up 
once  more,  and  gained  some  pleasure  from  it. 

The  only  people  in  England  whom  he  could  call  his 
friends  were  the  Kynastons.  He  went  often  to  their 
house  in  Camden  Town.  It  was  a  poor  house,  shabby 
and  crowded.  Both  Kynaston  and  his  wife  worked 
hard,  but  poverty  was  always  treading  on  their  heels. 


168  MANY   JUNES 

They  faced  the  world  with  gallant  hearts.  Their  chil- 
dren brought  them  plenty  of  anxiety  but  still  more 
happiness.  Hugh  often  envied  his  friend  as  he  went 
back  at  night  through  the  noisy  streets  to  his  own  quiet 
and  comfortable  rooms.  He  thought  sometimes  that  if 
he  himself  were  to  marry  and  beget  children  to  cling 
round  him,  to  comfort  his  heart,  his  life  might  yet  be 
saved  from  the  dreariness  which  he  saw  stretching  in 
front  of  him  through  a  long  succession  of  years.  But 
his  income,  though  more  than  sufficient  for  his  own 
needs,  was  not  large,  and  he  knew  that  he  lacked  the 
pluck  and  spring  of  mind  with  which  his  friend  faced 
the  constant  pressure  of  poverty.  Besides,  his  acquain- 
tances were  so  few,  and  among  them  all  he  knew  of  no 
girl  or  woman  whom  he  could  picture  to  himself  as 
sharing  his  life. 

Five  years  went  by  in  dull  monotony,  broken  only 
by  the  additional  sorrow  brought  by  the  news  of  his 
sister's  death  in  the  far-off  country  where  she  had 
made  her  home.  Hugh  thought  of  her  as  rejoining  her 
children,  and  would  gladly  have  given  up  the  remain- 
ing years  of  his  own  cheerless  life  to  be  at  peace,  as 
Anne  was.  Somehow,  ever  since  he  had  stood  on  the 
wet  quay  and  seen  her  moving  away  from  him,  he  had 
felt  that  the  break  in  the  cords  which  had  bound  them 
together  was  final.  The  bitterness  of  parting  had  been 
met  then,  and  his  grief  at  Anne's  death  wajs  more  for 
the  sake  of  George,  her  husband,  than  for  his  own. 

One  late  September,  three  or  four  years  after  Anne's 
death,  Hugh  was  staying  in  an  hotel  on  the  coast  of 


THE    CHURTONS  169 

Yorkshire.  He  had  put  off  his  main  holiday  until 
Christmas  time,  when  he  was  going  to  Rome,  and  had 
come  here  for  a  week's  rest.  The  hotel  had  been  a 
country  house  of  moderate  size,  which  had  been  en- 
larged by  the  addition  of  a  larger  barracklike 
structure.  It  stood  on  the  summit  of  a  cliff  six 
or  seven  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea, 
and  from  its  windows  could  be  seen  a  noble  stretch 
of  country — dark  moorland,  intersected  by  hillside 
farms  and  cottages  and  little  patches  of  cultivated 
ground,  while  the  great  sweep  of  a  bay  rimmed  it, 
ending  in  another  steep  cliff,  in  a  cleft  of  which,  four 
miles  across  the  sea,  nestled  an  old  red-roofed  fishing 
village,  crowned  by  a  stone-built  church.  The  air  was 
strong  and  keen.  The  house,  assailed  by  fierce  winds, 
sometimes  wrapped  in  clouds  when  elsewhere  the  sky 
was  blue,  sometimes  standing  in  sunshine  above  the  sea 
of  vapour,  had  once  been  remote  and  unknown  in  a 
wild  country.  Then  a  single  line  of  railway,  skirting 
the  coastline,  had  made  it  accessible  from  the  great 
watering-place  twelve  miles  away.  The  little  hamlet 
had  been  seized  upon  for  development.  The  big  hotel 
had  sprung  up  gourd-like ;  streets  had  been  marked  out 
round  the  railway  station,  and  a  few  houses  built, 
looking  strangely  out  of  place  among  the  loose  stone 
walls,  the  rough  roads  and  the  bare  fields;  and  there 
the  change  had  been  stayed.  Glorious  as  it  was  on 
still  days  of  summer  and  autumn,  with  the  air  pure  and 
fresh  from  blowing  over  miles  of  heather  and  miles 
of  sea,  this  bleak  upland,  on  which  no  tree  could  grow 


170  MANY   JUNES 

straight,  except  in  the  sheltered  hollows,  seemed  to  re- 
sent capture  by  man's  enterprise.  The  new  houses 
looked  ashamed  of  their  newness,  the  older  part  of 
the  hotel,  grey  and  lichened,  beaten  upon  by  years  of 
wind  and  rain,  as  if  the  building  which  had  been  joined 
on  to  it  were  a  monstrosity  to  which  it  could  never  ac- 
custom itself.  During  two  months  in  the  summer  it  was 
full  to  overflowing.  For  the  rest  of  the  year  it  stood 
empty,  new  and  old  alike  patiently  opposing  them- 
selves to  the  wild  spirit  of  the  place. 

On  a  ledge  of  the  cliff,  below  the  level  of  the  house, 
and  approached  by  steps  cut  in  the  rock,  had  been 
made  many  years  before  a  terraced  garden  of  consid- 
erable extent.  Thousands  of  pounds  had  been  lavished 
on  this  costly  freak,  and  but  little  had  been  done  in 
the  way  of  cultivation.  But  the  years  had  made  it 
beautiful.  They  had  aged  the  crenellated  battlements, 
and  the  tide  of  vegetation  had  flung  itself  against  the 
rocks,  the  piled-up  stone  walls,  and  the  rough-hewn 
stairs  and  passage  ways,  and  framed  the  grass  and  the 
paths  and  the  flower  beds  in  a  natural  setting.  You 
could  stand  in  shelter  on  a  pavement  of  great  time- 
worn  blocks  of  stone  and  look  down  across  tumbled 
rocks  interspersed  with  spaces  of  green  rabbit-eaten 
turf  and  tangles  of  gorse,  to  where  the  sea  lay  far  below. 
Gulls  floated  to  and  fro,  uttering  their  mournful  cry, 
sometimes  on  a  level  with  the  cliff  top,  sometimes  be- 
neath you.  The  height  was  so  great  that  sheep  feed- 
ing on  the  lower  coombes  were  dwarfed  to  white 
maggots,  and  breakers  among  the  great  rocks  on  the 


THE    CHURTONS  171 

shore  looked  like  ripples  on  a  pebbled  beach.  The  cliffs 
rose  high  to  the  right,  and  sea-birds  sunned  themselves 
on  inaccessible  ledges.  To  the  left  was  the  great 
sweep  of  the  bay  and  the  rolling  moors  climbing  to  still 
higher  ridges. 

To  this  beautiful  place  Hugh  came  on  a  golden  eve- 
ning in  late  September.  He  had  the  great  hotel  nearly 
to  himself.  It  had  been  crowded  a  fortnight  before, 
but  a  week  of  storm  and  fierce  gale  had  emptied  it, 
and  it  would  close  its  doors  for  the  winter  very 
shortly.  He  took  long  walks  over  the  moors,  along 
the  cliffside  and  by  the  sea,  or  sat  in  the  terraced  gar- 
den watching  the  sea  and  the  gulls,  reading  and  paint- 
ing. He  was  refreshed  and  invigorated,  and  his  life 
seemed  to  him  less  gloomy  than  it  was  wont. 

There  were  two  people  among  the  few  in  the  hotel, 
a  lady  and  her  daughter,  who  had  arrived  the  day  after 
himself.  Mrs.  Churton  was  a  woman  of  middle-age,  tall 
and  upright,  rather  colourless,  both  in  mind  and  fea- 
ture, whose  tendency  was  to  consider  herself  superior  to 
any  company  into  which  she  might  be  thrown.  Her 
•daughter,  Mabilia,  was  a  younger  replica  of  her,  not 
in  her  first  youth.  Her  eyes  were  slightly  hard,  her 
features  correct.  She  was  always  carefully  dressed 
and  her  hair  neatly  braided.  Hugh  felt  no  desire  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  either  of  them,  and  for 
the  first  evening  of  their  arrival  they  kept  to 
themselves  and  surveyed  the  people  around  them 
coldly. 

On  the  second  evening  Hugh  sat  next  to  Mrs.  Chur- 


172  MANY   JUNES 

ton  at  dinner.  She  did  not  address  herself  to  him,  but 
the  intimate  conversation  which  she  carried  on  with  her 
daughter  seemed  designed  to  reach  his  ears  and  those 
of  the  other  visitors.  Mrs.  Churton  could  not  imagine 
what  had  induced  her  to  go  to  Scarborough  for  the 
fortnight  during  which  they  were  at  a  loose  end.  It 
was  an  utterly  odious  place.  It  was  fortunate  that  they 
had  been  told  of  this  hotel.  The  air  was  good,  and 
though  the  accommodation  was  not  what  she  could  have 
wished  it  would  do  very  well  for  a  week.  After  that,  it 
appeared,  they  were  going  to  pay  visits  in  the  country, 
until  it  should  be  time  to  settle  in  London  again  for 
the  winter.  She  mentioned  the  names  of  the  people  to 
whose  houses  they  were  going;  one  of  their  hosts  re- 
joiced in  a  title,  and  Mrs.  Churton  seemed  to  rejoice  in 
it  too,  though  she  did  not  intend  to  convey  that  im- 
pression, for  she  said  that  it  was  very  tiresome  that 
they  should  have  to  go  there  at  all.  As  Hugh  went 
up  to  bed  that  night  she  was  asking  the  manageress 
about  the  guests  in  the  hotel,  and  he  heard  his  own 
name  mentioned. 

The  next  morning  he  set  out  for  a  long  walk  across 
the  moors,  and  did  not  return  until  the  afternoon. 
Then  he  took  a  book  and  went  down  on  the  terrace 
to  read  for  an  hour.  He  settled  himself  in  an  embra- 
sure of  the  low  turreted  wall,  and  looked  out  across 
the  sea.  His  book  lay  unopened  on  the  stone  seat  be- 
side him,  and  he  let  his  thoughts  wander  far  away. 
The  white  gulls  floated  beneath  him,  calling  sadly ;  the 
level  rays  of  the  sun  threw  long  shadows ;  the  sea  mur- 


THE    CHURTONS  173 

mured  softly  far  below.  His  long  walk  had  tired  him, 
but  he  felt  well,  and  not  unhappy,  as  the  past  years 
came  up  before  him  and  assailed  him  with  gentle 
thoughts  of  those  vhom  he  had  loved  and  lost.  Youth 
had  passed  him  by,  and  he  had  missed  the  best  in  life, 
but  the  fair  scenes  of  nature  still  had  power  to  charm 
him.  He  would  never  quite  lack  consolation  so  long 
as  he  had  eyes  to  see  the  beauty  of  the  world  and  ears 
to  listen  to  its  quieter  cadences. 

He  was  aroused  from  his  reverie  by  the  clang  of  an 
iron  gate,  by  voices,  and  footsteps  on  the  gravel.  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Churton  came  down  through  the  garden  and 
up  on  to  the  stone  platform  where  he  was  sitting.  It 
ran  some  twenty  or  thirty  yards  along  by  the  low  wall, 
and  they  began  to  walk  up  and  down  it.  He  was 
mildly  annoyed  at  the  disturbance  of  his  privacy,  but 
did  not  expect  that  they  would  do  more  than  pass  him 
by  without  recognition.  He  was  somewhat  surprised 
when  Mrs.  Churton  bowed  to  him  as  they  passed,  and 
when  they  had  gone  the  length  of  the  terrace  and  back 
again  she  stopped  and  entered  into  polite  conversation 
with  him.  He  stood  up  beside  her.  "  My  daughter,'* 
she  said,  and  Hugh  acknowledged  the  unnecessary  in- 
troduction. 

When  she  had  made  a  few  remarks  upon  the  weather 
and  the  beauty  of  the  scene  around  them,  Mrs.  Churton 
disclosed  the  purpose  with  which  she  had  addressed  him. 
This  was  to  invite  him  to  a  defensive  alliance  against 
the  other  people  staying  in  the  hotel.  "  It  is  so  dis- 
agreeable," she  said,  "  to  be  obliged  to  mix  up  with 


174  MANY   JUNES 

these  provincial  business  people.  They  spoil  every- 
thing." 

Hugh  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  "  They  seem 
quite  inoffensive,"  he  said. 

"  Yes ;  but  their  accent !  "  returned  Mrs.  Churton. 
"It  sets  one's  teeth  on  edge.  I  said  to  my  daughter 
last  night  that  it  was  odd  that  in  a  big  hotel  like  this 
there  should  be  only  one  gentleman  with  whom  we  could 
associate." 

The  remark  was  addressed  so  pointedly  to  him  that 
he  bowed,  still  wondering.  A  faint  flush  appeared  on 
Mabilia  Churton's  thin  cheeks.  "  Everybody  here 
seems  quite  respectable,  mother,"  she  said,  "  and  they 
do  not  interfere  with  us." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Churton,  "  they  are  hopeless 
vulgarians.  I  saw  your  name  in  the  visitors'  book, 
Mr.  Lelacheur.  Where  was  it  that  we  met  Sir  Richard 
and  Lady  Lelacheur,  Mabilia  ?  " 

"  At  Homburg,"  replied  Miss  Churton  rather 
shortly.  "  At  least,  they  were  staying  there  at  the 
same  time  as  we  were." 

"  Ah !  that  was  it.  I  was  thinking  that  we  met  them 
at  some  country  house.  It  is  not  a  common  name,  I 
suppose?  " 

"  Sir  Richard  Lelacheur  is  my  cousin,"  said  Hugh, 
as  she  paused  for  a  reply.  "  But  I  have  never  met 
him." 

Mrs.  Churton  seemed  a  little  disconcerted.  There 
was  a  short  pause,  and  then  she  went  over  again  the 
information  as  to  her  future  movements  which  Hugh 


THE   CHURTONS  175 

had  heard  the  night  before  at  dinner.  "  How  long  do 
you  intend  to  stay  here?  "  she  asked. 

Hugh  told  her  that  at  the  end  of  the  week  he  was 
going  back  to  his  work  in  London. 

Again  she  seemed  a  trifle  put  out,  and  there  was  an- 
other pause  in  the  conversation,  which  Hugh  did  noth- 
ing to  fill.  "  Well,  we  shall  be  able  to  talk  to  one 
another  after  dinner,"  she  said  graciously.  "  I  think 
I  will  go  in,  Mabilia,  it  is  getting  cold.  But  do  not  let 
me  drag  you  in  if  you  would  rather  be  out  of  doors." 

But  Mabilia  preferred  to  go  in  with  her  mother,  and 
with  stately  bows  they  left  Hugh  again  to  himself. 

He  talked  to  Miss  Churton  at  dinner  that  evening, 
and  afterwards  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  less 
commanding  in  conversation  than  her  mother,  and  made 
no  attempt  to  penetrate  his  reserve  about  himself.  She 
had  read  a  good  deal,  and  talked  of  what  she  had  read, 
not  with  any  particular  insight,  but  with  enough  in- 
telligence to  interest  Hugh,  who  seldom  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  discussing  books.  It  appeared  also  that  she 
painted  a  little,  and  when  Hugh  confessed  that  he  did 
so  too  Mrs.  Churton  struck  in  and  suggested  that  they 
should  make  a  sketching  excursion  together.  "  I  do 
nothing  of  that  sort  myself,"  she  said  loftily,  "  but  I 
can  sit  and  read  a  book  while  you  are  both  at  work." 

Hugh  was  rather  surprised  the  next  morning  to  find 
himself  setting  out  for  the  lower  coombes  alone  with 
Mabilia  Churton.  Mrs.  Churton  had  a  slight  cold  and 
would  not  appear  until  lunchtime.  So  Mabilia  in- 
formed him,  in  a  manner  which  seemed  to  imply  some 


176  MANY  JUNES 

relief.  She  did  not  suggest  a  postponement  of  the  ex- 
pedition, and  they  went  down  the  steep  hillside  together. 
"  It  was  perfectly  ridiculous  of  mother  to  have  thought 
of  coming,"  she  said :  "  she  would  not  have  sat  still 
for  ten  minutes,  and  we  should  not  have  done  anything." 

"  I  hope  her  cold  is  not  serious,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Oh  no,  I  don't  think  so,"  she  replied  indifferently. 

They  settled  themselves  under  the  shelter  of  a  rock 
and  prepared  their  apparatus.  "  May  I  look  at  your 
book?"  asked  Miss  Churton.  Hugh  handed  her  his 
sketch-book  diffidently,  and  she  turned  over  the  pages. 
"  Oh !  but  these  are  excellent,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be 
quite  ashamed  to  show  you  mine."  Whether  or  no  she 
expected  to  be  asked  to  do  so,  Hugh  did  not  make 
the  request.  "  These  are  all  foreign,"  she  said,  when 
she  had  looked  through  them.  "  You  have  travelled  a 
good  deal,  Mr.  Lelacheur." 

"  I  usually  go  abroad  every  year,"  Hugh  replied. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  the  English  country.  We  were 
staying  at  a  beautiful  place  in  Sussex  last  year.  I 
should  like  to  show  you.  But  I  could  not  get  anything 
right.  It  was  beyond  me." 

She  took  up  her  own  sketch-book  and  showed  him 
the  picture  of  a  large  house  in  a  large  garden.  Hugh 
looked  at  it  gravely.  He  could  find  nothing  to  praise 
in  the  hard  outlines  of  a  building  with  innumerable 
windows  and  chimneys,  or  the  garish  colours  of  beds 
of  geraniums  and  calceolarias.  "  It  is  not  a  very  good 
subject,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  agreed ;  "  but  I  wanted  to  have  a  picture 


THE    CHURTONS  17? 

of  the  house.  It  is  a  fine  place.  It  belongs  to  some 
great  friends  of  ours." 

Hugh  did  not  ask  the  name  of  the  owners,  but  turned 
a  leaf.  "  Don't  look  at  any  more,"  she  said,  and  took 
the  book  from  him.  "  They  are  not  good  enough ;  but 
it  amuses  me  to  try." 

They  both  set  to  work,  and  painted  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  with  only  short  snatches  of  conversation,  and 
those  chiefly  on  technical  details.  The  high  cliff  was 
in  front  of  them,  partly  in  sunshine,  partly  in  purple 
shadow,  and  the  sea  to  the  left.  Hugh  washed  in  his 
colours  with  a  practised  hand,  Miss  Churton  stippled 
them  weakly.  She  showed  no  illusions  as  to  her  own 
lack  of  skill,  but  admired  his  work  generously.  Pres- 
ently she  laid  aside  her  book  altogether  and  watched 
him  finish  his  drawing.  "  I  think  you  ought  to  succeed 
in  anything  you  take  up,"  she  said.  "  You  have 
strength  and  decision." 

Hugh  held  his  brush  poised  for  a  moment.  "  They 
are  very  good  qualities  in  drawing,"  he  said ;  "  I  hope 
you  may  be  right." 

She  cast  a  glance  at  his  face,  half  furtive,  half  curi- 
ous, and  then  rose  from  the  ground.  "  I  think  we 
ought  to  be  getting  back,"  she  said. 

They  made  their  way  along  the  cropped  grass  be- 
tween the  rocks  and  the  gorse,  and  climbed  the  steep 
hillside.  They  talked  about  the  places  they  had  seen 
abroad  and  in  England.  Miss  Churton's  chief  interest 
was  in  those  places  in  which  she  had  stayed  as  a  guest, 
and  when  Hugh  mentioned  some  country  renowned  for 


178  MANY  JUNES 

its  beauty  she  would  say :  "  Do  you  know  the  So-and- 
Sos?  I  believe  they  live  thereabouts." 

"  I  know  very  few  people,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  have 
always  lived  much  alone." 

"  Were  you  brought  up  in  London?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  lived  in  London  for  a  long  time,"  he  replied. 

She  told  him  something  of  the  course  of  her  own 
life.  Her  father  had  been  in  the  army,  and  had  died 
before  she  was  born.  She  and  her  mother  had  always 
lived  in  the  same  house  in  the  Cromwell  Road,  but 
they  had  been  about  a  good  deal.  She  had  been  to 
school  at  Eastbourne.  Her  father's  family  came  from 
Kent,  but  their  place  had  been  sold.  Her  mother's 
people  lived  in  Staffordshire,  but  they  saw  very  little 
of  them.  They  had  a  great  many  friends  in  London, 
but  no  relations.  Hugh  accepted  these  disclosures 
courteously,  but  without  putting  questions  which  would 
elucidate  them  further,  and  without  making  any  dis- 
closures in  return. 

They  reached  the  hotel  about  luncheon-time.  Mrs. 
Churton  had  apparently  thrown  off  her  indisposition, 
and  met  them  in  the  hall.  Hugh  inquired  after  her 
health  and,  having  been  reassured  on  the  point,  went 
up  to  his  room.  "  I  hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant 
morning,"  said  the  elder  lady,  eyeing  her  daughter 
rather  sharply. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Miss  Churton  indifferently.  "Mr. 
Lelacheur  is  quite  an  artist." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  her  mother.  "Have  you 
found  out  anything  about  him?  " 


THE   CHURTONS  179 

"  He  is  a  gentleman,"  replied  Mabilia.  "  I  don't 
want  to  know  any  more  than  that." 

"  Don't  be  aggravating,  Mabilia,"  said  her  mother. 
"  Where  does  he  come  from?  What  does  he  do?  " 

"  I  really  don't  know,  mother.  He  is  not  exactly  ef- 
fusive in  giving  information  about  himself." 

"  I  hope  he  is  all  right.  I  wonder  if  he  is  really 
a  cousin  of  Sir  Richard  Lelacheur's.  So  many  people 
lay  claim  to  relationships  which  they  do  not  really 
possess." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  Mr.  Lelacheur  wouldn't." 

"  He  said  he  was  a  cousin.  A  cousin  may  mean 
anything.  However,  it  will  be  quite  easy  to  find  that 
out." 

Mabilia  turned  away.  "  I  like  him,"  she  said ;  "  he 
is  reserved,  but  he  is  interesting,  not  like  other  men." 

That  afternoon  Hugh  walked  to  the  fishing  village 
on  the  other  side  of  the  bay.  Mrs.  Churton  had  asked 
him  his  plans  after  luncheon,  and,  when  he  had  told 
her  of  his  intentions,  had  said :  "  That  is  a  long  walk, 

rather  farther  than  I "  But  her  daughter  had 

broken  in :  "  You  and  I  will  go  to  the  foot  of  the  moor, 
mother,  after  we  have  rested  a  little." 

He  walked  along  the  cliff  top,  had  tea  at  a  little  inn 
overlooking  the  sea,  and  came  back  by  the  sands, 
climbing  up  the  steep  cliff  path  homewards  in  the 
dusk.  He  thought  a  good  deal  about  the  Churtons  as 
he  walked.  It  had  very  seldom  happened  to  him  that 
any  woman  had  shown  a  desire  for  his  society,  but 
he  could  not  be  unaware  that  he  would  be  a  good  deal 


180  MANY  JUNES 

in  their  company  as  long  as  they  stayed  under  the  same 
roof.     He  was  not  quite  sure  whether  he  was  annoyed 
or  gratified.     He  did  not  like  Mrs.  Churton.     Unso- 
phisticated as  he  was,  he  could  hardly  help  labelling  her 
as  impertinent  and  inquisitive.     His  knowledge  of  the 
world,  curiously  defective  on  certain  points,  did  not 
teach  him  that  his  name  and  connection  would  be  likely 
to  prove  attractive  to  such  a  woman  as  she,  but  he 
did  realize  that  the  questions  she  had  already  asked 
both  directly  and  indirectly,  about  himself,  would  con- 
tinue to  be  asked,  and  she  would  not  be  satisfied  unless 
he  told  her  much  more  of  his  history  than  he  had  any 
intention  of  telling  her.     Anne's  name  and  that  of  her 
child  were  sacred   to  him.      In  his  loneliness  he  had 
never  spoken  of  them,  not  even  to  the  Kynastons,  and  he 
would  never  do  so,  if  he  could  help  it,  to  Mrs.  Churton. 
His  penetration  did  not  show  him  any  of  these  un- 
pleasant qualities  in  Mabilia  Churton.     The  few  direct 
questions  she  had  put  to  him  in  the  morning  had  not 
been  persisted  in,  and  he  had  not  recognized  any  other 
motive  than  one  of  companionship  in  the  confidences 
which  she  had  given  him.     He  thought  she  was  pleased 
to  find  some  community  of  taste  in  a  chance  acquain- 
tance, and  he  was  inclined  to  reciprocate  that  pleasure. 
His  life  was  not  lived  so  consistently  alone  because  he 
preferred  solitude.       He  was  incapable  of  taking  the 
first  step  in  an  acquaintanceship,  but,  if  it  was  offered 
to  him,  he  had  no  impulse  of  rejection.    It  was  pleasant 
to  talk  over  the  things  that  interested  him  to  a  well- 
educated  woman.     He  thought  of  Mabilia  Churton  as 


THE    CHURTONS  181 

well  educated,  and  she  was  refined  in  speech  and  manner. 
He  rather  hoped  that  it  would  be  suggested  that  they 
should  go  sketching  together  again.  It  did  not  occur 
to  him  to  suggest  it  himself. 

It  was  dark  when  he  reached  the  hotel.  He  read  for 
an  hour  and  then  went  down  to  dinner.  His  place  was 
next  to  Miss  Churton,  and  he  talked  to  her  and  her 
mother  afterwards  until  they  retired  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

MABILIA 

HUGH  was  walking  with  Mabilia  Churton  across  the 
heather.  Mrs.  Churton  had  accompanied  them  to 
where  the  road  on  the  crest  of  a  high  hill  was  crossed 
by  another,  and  continuing,  lost  itself  immediately  in 
a  moorland  track.  There  was  a  great  stone  windmill 
here  and  a  little  inn.  To  the  south  a  wide  prospect 
of  hill  and  valley  opened  out,  edged  by  the  rugged 
coastline ;  to  the  north  and  the  west  rolled  a  great  ex- 
panse of  moor,  brown  and  sullen  under  a  lowering  sky. 
The  wind  tore  across  it  from  the  north-east,  bringing 
spurts  of  rain,  and  every  now  and  again  a  gleam  of 
sunshine  which  brightened  the  dark  undulations.  She 
watched  the  two  figures  dipping  into  the  hollows  and 
rising  again  to  the  ridges  until  they  were  moving 
specks  in  the  vast  solitude  of  the  moor,  and  then  turned 
and  went  down  the  hill  to  the  comfort  of  her  fire. 

Hugh  and  Mabilia  had  been  together  a  good  deal 
during  the  past  week.  As  long  as  the  mellow  Septem- 
ber sunshine  had  continued  they  had  made  sketching  ex- 
cursions, and  since  the  break  in  the  weather  they  had 
taken  long  walks  over  the  windy  heath,  along  the  sands 
and  on  the  rough  hilly  roads.  Their  conversation, 
during  these  expeditions,  was  intermittent.  Hugh  had 
told  his  companion  nothing,  as  yet,  of  his  past  life,  and 

182 


MABILIA  183 

she  had  ceased  trying  to  draw  confidences  from  him. 
She  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  his  own  reticent  mood, 
was  content  to  draw  or  to  walk  for  a  long  time  together 
.without  speaking,  and  seldom  now  talked  of  the  details 
of  her  own  life.  But  every  now  and  then  she  would  cast 
at  him  a  look  which  showed  that  her  thoughts  were  busy 
with  him  during  the  silence,  and  that  it  was  not  for 
lack  of  desire  to  know  that  she  refrained  from  seeking 
to  pierce  the  shell  of  his  reserve.  Mrs.  Churton's  ret- 
icence had  been  far  less  admirable,  but  he  had  received 
her  fishing  conversation  with  a  grave  courtesy,  mixed 
now  with  some  wonderment  that  she  should  persist  in 
it,  which  made  it  plain  that  her  curiosity  was  divined, 
and  that  it  was  not  his  intention  to  satisfy  it. 

They  had  walked  nearly  a  mile  across  the  moor  be- 
fore either  of  them  spoke.  Then  Hugh  broke  the  si- 
lence with  a  premonitory  cough.  "  Miss  Churton,"  he 
said,  "  we  have  been  together  a  good  deal  during  the 
last  few  days.  You  have  been  very  kind  in  taking  me 
as  I  am  but,  if  you  care  to  hear  it,  I  should  like  to 
tell  you  something  of  my  early  life." 

A  blush  had  mounted  Mabilia's  thin  cheeks  at  his 
first  words.  "  Don't  tell  me  anything  you  don't  wish 
to,"  she  said  hurriedly ;  "  I  am  quite  content  that  we 
should  be  friends  as  we  are  now." 

"  I  live  so  little  in  the  world,"  he  said,  "  and  see  so 
few  people,  that  it  did  not  occur  to  me,  at  first,  that 
perhaps  I  owed  it  to  Mrs.  Churton  to " 

"  Oh !  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  broke  in ; 
"  mother  is  like  that.  She  wants  to  know  all  about 


184.  MANY  JUNES 

everybody — what  they  do  and  who  their  relations  are. 
I  have  seen  that  it  has  surprised  you.  But  /  haven't 
worried  you  with  questions,  have  I?  /  haven't  tried 
to  find  out  your  secrets." 

"  I  have  no  secrets,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile.  **  I 
suppose  a  lonely  man  is  apt  to  keep  things  to  himself 
that  other  people  might  talk  about.  I  have  had  losses 
which  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  speak  of.  But  I  will 
tell  you  about  them." 

She  did  not  seek  to  dissuade  him  further,  and  he  told 
her  the  tale  of  his  life,  baldly.  "  My  father  and  his 
brother,  Sir  Simeon  Lelacheur,  whose  son  you  and  Mrs. 
Churton  have  met,  were  not  friends,"  he  said.  "  My 
father  was  a  sailor,  and  when  he  retired  from  the  serv- 
ice we  lived  in  the  country — in  Dorsetshire — he  and  my 
sister  and  I.  She  married  and  went  to  live  in  Australia. 
I  was  about  eighteen  then.  A  few  months  later  my 
father  lost  his  money  and  soon  after  that  he  died. 
I  had  to  go  and  work  in  the  City,  and  I  have  worked 
there  ever  since.  My  sister  and  her  husband  and — and 
her  child,  came  over  some  years  ago,  and  we  went  down 
together  to  our  old  home.  It  was  arranged  that  I 
should  go  back  to  Australia  with  them.  They  were 
my  only  relations,  and  I  had  very  few  friends.  Then 
I  fell  ill,  and — and  the  little  child  fell  ill  too — it  was 
typhoid  fever.  I  got  better,  but  she  died.  They  went 
back  without  me,  and  after  a  few  years  my  sister  died 
too.  Thai;  is  all  my  story,  Miss  Churton.  It  is  sim- 
ply this — that  I  have  lived  alone,  and  lost  all  of  those 
whom  I  loved." 


MABILIA  185 

Miss  Churton's  eyes  were  bent,  her  face  was  serious. 
"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

They  reached  home  as  the  dusk  was  falling,  and 
Mabilia  went  up  to  Mrs.  Churton's  room.  "  Mother," 
she  said,  "  he  has  told  me  about  himself." 

Mrs.  Churton  was  reclining  in  an  easy-chair  before 
a  bright  fire.  She  laid  aside  her  book  and  looked  up. 
"  Well,  and  I  think  about  time  too,"  she  said.  "  And 
what  is  the  profound  secret  that  he  has  been  hugging 
so  closely  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  secret.  He  has  had  a  sad  life.  His 
father  was  in  the  navy,  and " 

"  That  I  could  have  told  you.  I  have  just  had  a 
letter  from  Mrs.  Moxon-Jones.  I  asked  her  to  look  up 
the  family  in  a  Peerage.  Admiral  Lelacheur  was  a 
brother  of  Sir  Simeon,  the  father  of  the  present  man. 
This  is  his  only  son,  but  Sir  Richard  has  four  boys, 
so  there  is  practically  no  chance  of  his  succeeding. 
However,  the  baronetcy  is  an  old  one.  There  was  a 
daughter  who  married,  and  died  a  few  years  ago  in 
Australia.  That  is  my  news.  Now  what  is  yours  ?  " 

"  That  is  mine  too,  except  that  Mr.  Lelacheur's  sister 
had  a  child,  who  died  as  well.  From  the  way  he  spoke, 
I  think  he  was  devoted  to  both  of  them  and  has  never 
got  over  their  loss." 

"  Well ;  but  you  must  have  found  out  something  else. 
Why  does  he  not  know  his  cousins?  He  is  the  next 
heir,  if  anything  happened  to  them." 

"  His  father  and  Sir  Simeon  quarrelled  about  some- 
thing. He  did  not  tell  me  what  it  was." 


186  MANY  JUNES 

'*  Well,  but — I  suppose  his  father  must  have  been 
well  off — a  retired  Admiral.  He  is  the  only  son." 

"  His  father  lost  his  money,  and  Mr.  Lelacheur  had 
to  go  into  the  City.  He  has  lived  alone  always.  He 
scarcely  sees  any  one.  Oh,  mother,  I  am  so  sorry  for 
him." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Mrs.  Churton,  after  a  pause,  re- 
flectively. "  Of  course,  that  might  account  for  his 
secrecy,  though,  upon  my  word,  I  can't  see  what  he 
had  to  hide.  It  was  impossible  to  get  the  least  little 
thing  out  of  him." 

"  I  wish  you  would  leave  off  trying,  mother,"  said 
Mabilia,  with  some  asperity.  "  I  have  never  met  a 
man  I  liked  so  much,  and  if  he  did  not  feel  that  I  was 
his  friend  he  would  never  have  told  me  so  much  as  he 
has.  I  should  think  it  was  easy  enough  to  see  that 
he  cares  nothing  about  knowing  a  lot  of  people,  and 
the  sort  of  thing  that  we  think  so  much  about.  You 
can't  impress  him  in  that  way,  however  much  you 
try." 

"  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  know  what  you  mean, 
Mabilia,"  said  Mrs.  Churton  stiffly.  "  Who  has  been 
trying  to  impress  him,  pray?  " 

Mabilia  made  an  impatient  movement.  "  I  think  we 
understand  each  other  pretty  well,  mother,"  she  said. 
"  We  are  nobodies  in  particular,  but  we  like  to  appear 
somebodies.  I  can  assure  you  that  Mr.  Lelacheur 
doesn't  care  in  the  least  who  we  are.  If  I  am  to  keep 
him  as  a  friend — and  I  mean  to  if  I  can — you  had  better 
drop  all  that.  He  knows  nothing  of  the  sort  of  life 


MABILIA  187 

or  the  sort  of  people  that  we  are  interested  in,  and  he 
doesn't  want  to  in  the  least.  Let  me  make  a  friend  for 
once  for  the  sake  of  what  he  is.  You  will  only  spoil 
our  friendship  if  you  go  on  talking  about  relations  he 
has  never  known,  and  you  don't  know  either." 

"  Really,  Mabilia,"  returned  Mrs.  Churton,  scandal- 
ized, "  you  seem  to  want  to  make  me  out  an  arrant 
snob." 

Mabilia  went  out  of  the  room  without  replying. 
Her  mother  remained  by  herself  some  time  longer. 
When  she  met  Hugh  that  evening  her  conversation  un- 
derwent a  change.  She  talked  of  the  books  she  had 
been  reading,  not  altogether  without  intelligence,  and 
about  places,  but  very  little  about  people,  and  Hugh 
found  himself  more  at  ease  in  her  presence  than  before. 
Mabilia  talked  very  little,  but  Hugh's  sense  of  inti- 
macy with  her  was  sensibly  increased. 

The  next  day  all  three  of  them  left,  and  Hugh  trav- 
elled with  Mrs.  and  Miss  Churton  as  far  as  York,  and, 
before  taking  leave,  promised  to  call  on  them  when  they 
returned  to  town  in  November.  He  sank  back  in  his 
seat  with  a  slight  sigh  of  relief  when  the  train  moved 
off  again.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  alone  again. 

The  fine  air  and  the  exercise  he  had  taken  had  done 
him  good.  In  the  weeks  that  followed  he  looked  back 
with  some  gratification  to  his  short  autumn  holiday, 
and  recalled  the  romantic  scenery  in  which  it  had  been 
passed.  It  was  natural  that  Mabilia  Churton  should 
be  connected  in  some  measure  with  his  agreeable  recol- 
lections, for  she  had  been  his  companion  and  had  shared 


188  MANY   JUNES 

his  appreciation  of  that  beautiful  country.  He  did  not 
hear  from  her  or  her  mother  until  they  returned  to 
London  towards  the  end  of  November.  Then  he  re- 
ceived a  note  asking  him  to  dinner,  and  accepted  with 
some  mild  degree  of  pleasurable  anticipation. 

Mrs.  Churton's  drawing-room  was  what  would  have 
been  described  in  a  house  agent's  catalogue  as  hand- 
somely furnished.  The  curtains  were  of  expensive  ma- 
terial, the  carpet  was  thick  and  soft,  there  was  a  great 
ideal  of  gilding  about  the  walls  and  the  furniture,  there 
was  a  grand  piano  and  a  large  glass  cabinet  full  of 
modern  china  and  pottery.  Hugh,  punctual  to  the 
hour  named,  waited  here  for  some  little  time.  He  looked 
round  him  with  some  curiosity,  but  found  nothing  to 
please  his  eye.  The  water-colours  on  the  walls  were  of 
little  value;  there  were  no  bookshelves,  but  on  a  small 
table  a  few  novels  from  the  library,  and  some  ladies' 
papers.  A  light  wallpaper,  indeterminate  in  hue,  gave 
the  room  a  cold  appearance  in  spite  of  its  lavish  orna- 
mentation. He  felt  slightly  depressed. 

Presently  Mabilia  came  in.  She  was  dressed  in 
black,  which  showed  up  her  fair  but  rather  thin  neck 
and  shoulders  and  her  upright  figure  to  some  advan- 
tage. There  was  a  slight  flush  on  her  usually  pale  cheeks 
as  she  shook  hands  with  him,  and  her  cold  eyes  were 
rather  bright.  Mrs.  Churton  came  in  when  they  had 
spoken  a  few  words  of  greeting.  She  was  rather  more 
elaborately  dressed  than  her  daughter,  and  her  man- 
ner was  also  rather  more  elaborate,  but  there  was  some 
genuine  warmth  in  her  greeting,  and  Hugh  had  the 


MABILIA  189 

gratification  of  feeling  that  both  ladies  were  pleased  to 
see  him  again. 

The  dining-room  was  massively  furnished,  and  had 
an  air  of  comfort  which  the  drawing-room  lacked.  The 
dinner  was  passable,  but  longer  than  Hugh  was  accus- 
tomed to.  They  were  waited  upon  by  two  maids.  They 
talked  of  the  week  in  Yorkshire  which  they  had  spent 
together,  and  of  the  houses  at  which  Mrs.  Churton  and 
Miss  Churton  had  since  visited.  Mrs.  Churton  had  re- 
covered some  of  her  usual  rather  bombastical  manner, 
but  she  no  longer  invited  Hugh  to  cap  her  list  of  ac- 
quaintances, and  Mabilia  spoke  chiefly  of  the  places  they 
had  seen  and  not  of  the  people.  As  Hugh  walked  home, 
soon  after  ten  o'clock,  he  compared  in  his  mind  the 
manner  of  mother  and  daughter.  He  thought  Mrs. 
Churton's  habit  of  dragging  in  the  names  of  her  titled 
acquaintances  upon  all  occasions  detestable.  He  had 
never  before  met  a  woman  who  did  that,  but  her  vain- 
glory was  so  obvious  that  he  could  hardly  mistake  her 
intention.  He  thought  he  could  see  that  Mabilia  found 
this  habit  odious  too,  and  was  ashamed  of  it.  The  idea 
caused  him  some  discomfort,  but  it  inclined  him  to  re- 
spect her  the  more. 

During  the  next  month  he  was  a  frequent  visitor 
at  the  house  in  the  Cromwell  Road,  and  began  to  feel 
at  home  there.  His  liking  for  Mrs.  Churton  hardly 
increased,  but  he  was  able  to  make  allowances  for  her 
disagreeable  qualities,  and  found  that  they  were,  to  a 
certain  extent,  balanced  by  good  ones.  It  surprised 
him  to  find  that  she  and  Mabilia  spent  an  evening  a 


190  MANY   JUNES 

week  at  a  girls'  club  in  a  poor  part  of  Netting  Hill, 
and  that  nothing  was  allowed  to  interfere  with  this  en- 
gagement. He  accompanied  them  there  one  evening. 
Mrs.  Churton  was  a  different  woman  immediately  she 
entered  the  close  brightly  lit  club-room.  The  girls 
thronged  round  her.  She  spoke  to  them  authoritatively 
but  kindly.  The  tricks  of  speech  which  she  kept  for 
her  more  well-to-do  friends  had  disappeared.  She  was 
straightforward  and  sympathetic.  She  had  a  dozen 
girls  round  her  to  one  who  sought  the  ear  of  her 
daughter.  Hugh  was  little  at  his  ease,  and  Mabilia, 
shaking  off  the  girls  around  her,  spoke  to  him  aside. 
"  I  hate  all  this  sort  of  thing,"  she  confessed.  "  I  only 
do  it  out  of  duty."  Hugh  felt  suddenly  depressed. 
Mrs.  Churton  was  busy  organizing  a  game  which  should 
take  in  the  whole  assembly,  and  called  to  Mabilia  and 
Hugh  to  help  her. 

At  home  Mabilia's  manner  pleased  him  much  better 
than  her  mother's.  He  met  a  good  many  people  at 
their  house,  some  of  whom  he  liked.  But  the  majority 
— of  the  women,  at  least — showed  the  same  tastes  and 
inclinations  as  their  hostess,  and  he  had  some  difficulty 
in  warding  off  their  personal  interest  in  himself  and 
his  position.  Mabilia  guarded  him  against  the  more 
persistent  of  them.  She  allowed  him  to  know  that  she 
thought  them  impertinent.  "  I  think  it  is  odious,"  she 
said  to  him  once,  "  that  people  should  make  such  a 
fuss  about  things  that  don't  matter  in  the  least.  None 
of  these  women  care  for  what  you  are;  it  is  only  who 
you  are  that  interests  them."  Hugh  thought  that  this 


MABILIA  191 

was  very  well  said.  Mabilia  Churton,  at  any  rate,  saw 
through  the  shams  of  her  mother's  world,  and  disliked 
them. 

Just  before  Christmas  Hugh  went  to  Rome.  Once 
again  he  was  relieved  to  be  by  himself.  On  looking 
back  he  realized  that  his  friendship  with  the  Churtons 
had  occupied  him  to  the  exclusion  of  many  of  the  former 
pursuits  of  his  leisure.  He  had  dined  with  them  half-a- 
dozen  times,  had  been  with  them  several  times  to  con- 
certs and  plays,  and  had  called  on  them,  either  on 
Saturday  or  Sunday,  every  week  since  they  had  returned 
to  London.  In  thinking  it  over  he  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  this  constant  intercourse  had  bettered  his  lonely 
life  or  disturbed  it  to  its  detriment.  He  was  quite 
sure  that  a  month's  respite  from  it  was  grateful  to 
him. 

Towards  the  end  of  his  stay  in  Rome  he  had  a  mild 
attack  of  influenza,  from  which  he  recovered  sufficiently 
to  enable  him  to  make  the  journey  home  at  the  proper 
time.  But,  arrived  once  more  in  his  rooms,  he  had  a 
relapse,  and  had  to  keep  to  them  for  a  week.  A  note 
to  Mrs.  Churton,  in  answer  to  an  invitation  awaiting 
his  arrival,  brought  that  lady  herself  to  see  him.  She 
was  the  lady  of  the  club  again,  sympathetic,  capable, 
and  unpretentious.  She  came  twice  while  he  was  still 
in  bed,  brought  him  fruit  and  light  literature,  and  left 
him  feeling  the  better  for  her  visits.  When  he  left  his 
bed  she  brought  Mabilia,  who  looked  round  upon  his 
possessions  with  curiosity,  but  showed  by  her  manner 
that  she  was  ill  at  ease  in  a  sickroom  and  wished  her- 


192  MANY  JUNES 

self  away.  By  the  time  he  had  completely  recovered 
Hugh  liked  the  mother  better  than  the  daughter. 

During  the  next  three  months  he  was  as  much  with 
them  as  before.  One  Saturday  afternoon  late  in  March 
he  and  Mabilia  were  at  Kew,  in  the  rock  garden.  "  It 
is  my  ambition  some  day  to  have  a  cottage  in  the 
country  with  a  large  garden,"  Hugh  told  her.  "  I  come 
here  at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  and  when  I  get  my 
garden  I  shall  know  what  to  do  with  it." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  should  like  too,*'  she  said. 
"  But  mother  hates  the  country,  except  just  to  go  and 
stay  in  a  big  house.  I  suppose  I  am  doomed  to  live  in 
London  all  my  life."  She  spoke  discontentedly,  as  she 
often  did.  "  I  would  give  anything  to  get  out  of  it 
all,"  she  said. 

"  You  have  a  great  many  friends  in  London,"  said 
Hugh. 

"  What  do  I  care  about  all  those  people?  "  she  re- 
plied impatiently.  "  I  shouldn't  mind  if  I  never  saw 
any  of  them  again." 

Hugh  did  not  answer,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon Mabilia  was  more  silent  than  her  wont,  and  when 
they  came  to  the  door  of  the  house  in  the  Cromwell 
Road  bade  him  good-bye  without  inviting  him  in. 

It  was  after  this  that  Hugh  began  to  perceive  a 
change  in  the  attitude  of  both  ladies  towards  him.  He 
was  not  asked  to  the  house  so  frequently,  and  when  he 
called  upon  them  their  behaviour  was  less  cordial,  and 
even  became  slightly  constrained.  It  was  not  until  he 
perceived  that  this  was  so  that  he  began  to  ask  himself 


MABILIA  193 

what  he  had  expected  of  his  friendship  with  the  Chur- 
tons.  The  answer  was  that  he  had  expected  nothing 
except  its  continuance,  without  change  and  without  de- 
velopment. It  would  make  little  difference  to  his  sub- 
dued appreciation  of  life  whether  it  continued  or  ceased, 
but  he  had  received  kindness  and  hospitality  from  them 
to  such  an  extent  that  it  caused  him  some  distress  to 
feel  that  he  was  withholding  any  return  that  they  might 
expect  from  him.  It  was  not  until  he  asked  himself 
further  what  that  return  might  be,  that  the  truth 
flashed  across  his  mind.  A  friendship  between  a  man 
and  an  unmarried  woman,  according  to  the  code  of  such 
people  as  the  Churtons,  could  not  proceed  without  de- 
velopment. It  must  lead  to  marriage,  or  at  any  rate 
a  proposal  of  marriage. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  .the  idea  had  entered  his 
mind,  but  he  had  seen  enough  of  the  Churtons  and  their 
friends  to  guide  him  to  the  reflection  that  it  had  prob- 
ably been  in  theirs  almost  from  the  beginning. 

There  was  abundant  food  for  thought  here,  and  he 
thought  long  and  closely,  discovering  many  things  both 
about  himself  and  about  them.  Of  any  feeling  towards 
Mabilia  beyond  a  mild  liking,  founded  partly  upon  pro- 
pinquity, partly  upon  some  community  of  taste,  he  had 
none,  but  reflection  pointed  to  a  probably  warmer  re- 
gard on  her  part.  His  ignorance  of  the  world  as  she 
and  her  mother  viewed  it,  although  less  abysmal  than 
before  he  had  known  them,  hid  from  him  more  than 
a  hint  of  other  reasons  for  their  desiring:  the  declara- 

O 

tion  which  he  was  now  pretty  sure  that  they  did  desire. 


194  MANY   JUNES 

He  was  not  likely  to  divine  the  wish  that  a  woman  of 
Mabilia's  age  and  upbringing  might  have  for  any  mar- 
riage which  would  not  be  an  obvious  step  downwards. 
He  thought  of  himself,  especially  in  view  of  the  declara- 
tion she  had  made  in  the  garden  at  Kew,  as  being  able 
to  offer  her  a  life  which  she  would  prefer  to  that  which 
she  now  lived — a  simpler  life,  perhaps  out  of  London, 
and  certainly  away  from  the  people  by  whom  she  was 
now  surrounded,  and  whom  she  had  often  told  him  that 
she  despised.  For  arousing  that  hope  in  her,  however 
unconsciously,  he  felt  himself  her  debtor. 

But  what  of  himself?  He  was  certainly  not  pre- 
pared to  offer  his  future  in  payment  of  that  debt  unless 
it  would  add  somewhat  to  his  meagre  stock  of  con- 
tentment. Life  had  brought  him  little  happiness,  but 
his  solitude  was  something  not  to  be  exchanged  lightly 
for  a  companionship  which  might  prove  irksome.  If  he 
did  offer  himself  to  Mabilia  he  would  not  do  so  under 
false  pretences.  There  could  be  no  declaration  of  love 
where  no  love  existed.  But  it  was  possible  that  two  of 
them  together,  both  past  their  first  youth,  and  asking 
no  great  gifts  of  life,  might  help  each  other  to  some 
increase  of  satisfaction  in  the  years  that  remained  to 
them. 

His  liking  for  Mabilia  hung  between  unwillingness 
to  withdraw  altogether  from  her  society,  and  uncer- 
tainty as  to  the  wisdom  of  a  closer  tie;  no  man  could 
ever  have  contemplated  marriage  from  weaker  com- 
pulsion. But  there  was  one  consideration  that  turned 
the  scale.  The  thought  of  little  children  of  his  own 


MABILIA  195 

to  twine  themselves  round  his  heartstrings  aroused  de- 
sire. This  was  the  boon  that  marriage  should  bring  to 
him.  It  was  a  compelling  one.  His  heart  warmed 
as  he  thought  of  it.  He  made  his  decision,  and  was 
relieved  that  the  inward  controversy  was  ended. 

He  wrote  to  Mabilia  saying  that  he  should  call  on 
the  following  afternoon,  and  asking  that  he  might  see 
her  alone. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday.  He  left  his  work  at 
about  two  o'clock,  went  to  his  rooms  and  changed  his 
clothes,  and  walked  round  to  the  house  in  the  Crom- 
well Road.  He  stood  on  the  steps  for  a  moment  after 
he  had  rung  for  admittance  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  respectable  but  rather  gloomy  street.  The  door  was 
opened,  and  closed  behind  him. 

Mabilia  was  sitting  on  the  sofa,  with  a  book  in  her 
hand.  She  sprang  up  nervously  as  he  entered.  "  We 
haven't  seen  you  for  nearly  a  week,"  she  said,  as  she 
shook  hands  with  him. 

"  Miss  Churton,"  said  Hugh,  "  I  have  come  to  ask 
you  if  you  will  be  my  wife." 

He  stood  before  her,  tall,  slight,  rather  sad-eyed, 
and  looked  straight  at  her.  She  turned  away  in  some 
confusion.  "  Let  us  sit  down,"  she  said. 

It  seemed  to  be  for  him  to  speak  again,  and  he 
found  it  more  difficult  than  he  had  imagined.  "  We 
have  been  friends  for  some  time,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
very  little,  I  am  afraid,  to  offer  you.  But  I  will  try 
and  make  you  happy." 

She  met  him  much  in  the  same  mood  as  his  own.     She 


196  MANY   JUNES 

smiled  at  him  and  said :  "  I  thought  you  might  be  com- 
ing to  say  that,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  answer 
'Yes.'" 

He  was  accepted.    And  again  the  word  was  with  him. 

He  took  the  hand  which  lay  beside  him  on  the  sofa, 
and  bent  over  it  chivalrously.  "  I  am  a  fortunate 
man,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  again,  a  little  sadly.  "  I  hoped 
you  might  ask  me,  from  the  first,"  she  said.  "  You 
haven't  asked  me  because  you  saw  that,  have  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  asked  you,"  he  said,  "  because  I  have  nearly 
always  lived  alone,  and  because,  since  I  have  known 
you,  I  want  to  be  alone  no  longer." 

Her  voice  was  a  little  tremulous  as  she  answered: 
"  I  have  been  very  sorry  for  you.  I  will  try  and  make 
up  for  the  sadness  of  your  life  as  far  as  I  can." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  do  that,"  he  said.  "  I  am  not 
rich,  but  I  can  give  you  something  of  what  you  want,  I 
think.  There  will  be  no  need  for  us  to  live  in  London." 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  be  able  to  live  in  the  coun- 
try? "  she  asked  doubtfully. 

"  Not  very  far  out,  perhaps,"  he  said.  "  But  we 
can  have  a  quiet  little  house,  and  a  garden.  You  can 
have  the  friends  you  choose.  There  will  be  no  need 
for  you  to  live  the  life  you  are  tired  of  here.  And 
every  year  we  can  go  away  for  three  or  four  weeks, 
to  any  beautiful  place  we  may  fix  on." 

"  I  think,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "  we  had  better  make 
no  plans  until  you  have  talked  to  mother.  But  I  will 
do  anything  you  wish,  of  course." 


CHAPTER    XV 


PUV.NS 


Mas.  CHUBTON  sat  at  her  writing-table  in  the  room 
she  called  the  library,  and  Hugh  sat  on  the  other  side 
of  the  table  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  fire.  The  library 
was  about  fourteen  feet  square,  and  was  behind  the 
dining-room.  It  commanded  a  view  of  an  ivy-covered 
wall  which  bounded  a  gravelled  square,  euphemistically 
termed  "  the  garden."  A  plane-tree  grew  in  one  corner, 
and  it  was  bordered  by  a  couple  of  feet  of  soil,  over 
which  trailed  the  bare  stalks  of  a  Virginia  creeper. 
The  room  had  a  dark  wallpaper,  dark  curtains,  and  an 
old  Turkey  carpet.  Mrs.  Churton's  writing-table  oc- 
cupied the  middle  of  the  floor.  It  was  a  large  business- 
like-looking structure,  and  was  kept  in  extreme  order. 
A  massive  mahogany  bookcase  with  glass  doors  con- 
tained a  collection  of  books  which  were  seldom  disturbed. 
Over  the  mantelpiece  was  a  proof  engraving  of  the 
picture  representing  lions  prowling  about  the  moonlit 
Coliseum.  Other  engravings  on  the  walls  were  Rosa 
Bonheur's  "Horse  Fair,"  "The  Landing  of  the  Pil- 
grim Fathers,"  "  Two's  Company  Three's  None,"  and 
a  large  portrait  of  Queen  Victoria.  On  the  mantel- 
piece were  a  clock  set  in  a  Greek  temple  of  black  marble 
and  two  equestrian  bronze  figures.  The  chairs  were 
massive  and  rather  shabby. 

197 


198  MANY   JUNES 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  this  news,"  said  Mrs.  Chur- 
ton  decisively.  "  I  have  long  seen  that  you  were  at- 
tracted by  Mabilia,  and  it  will  do  no  harm  now  to  say 
that  she  has  long  been  attracted  by  you." 

Hugh  murmured  acknowledgments. 

"  It  will  be  necessary  to  go  into  business  matters," 
she  proceeded,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  and  playing 
with  an  ivory  paper-knife.  "  But  that  need  not  detain 
us  long." 

*'  My  income  is  rather  over  five  hundred  a  year," 
said  Hugh,  as  it  seemed  to  be  expected  of  him  that  he 
should  make  a  statement.  "  It  will  increase  a  little, 
but  will  probably  never  be  much  more  than  six  hun- 
dred a  year." 

"  It  is  very  small,"  said  Mrs.  Churton  uncompromis- 
ingly, "  but  fortunately  I  am  well  off.  Mabilia  will 
have  nothing  of  her  own  until  my  death,  but  I  shall  be 
able  to  allow  her  something  in  the  meantime." 

"  If  you  care  to  allow  her  enough  to  dress  upon," 
said  Hugh,  "  I  will  accept  that  on  her  behalf  with 
gratitude.  Otherwise  we  will  live  upon  my  income." 

"  Have  you  made  any  plans  as  to  living?  " 

"  Mabilia  would  like  to  live  in  the  country.  We  shall 
not  be  able  to  do  that  for  some  years.  But  we  could 
find  a  house  in  some  pleasant  suburb — Hampstead,  or 
possibly  a  little  farther  out  still." 

Mrs.  Churton  held  up  her  hands.  "  My  dear  Hugh," 
she  said,  "  I  cannot  consent  to  that.  It  would  be  ban- 
ishment. Mabilia  would  dislike  it  extremely,  and  it 
would  not  be  fair  to  her." 


PLANS  199 

Hugh's  grave  face  became  set.  "  I  think  you  will 
find  you  are  mistaken,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  I  am  not  mistaken,"  replied  Mrs. 
Churton.  "  Mabilia  would  consent  to  anything  you 
required  of  her.  That  is  only  natural.  But  she  would 
not  be  happy  away  from  all  her  friends.  She  has  been 
brought  up  as  you  see  " — Mrs.  Churton  waved  her  hand 
to  indicate  the  dun-coloured  room — "  and  I  could  not 
consent  to  give  you  my  only  daughter  if  she  were  to  be 
taken  away  from  all  the  luxury  and  refinement  to  which 
she  has  been  accustomed,  and  the — the  friends  of  posi- 
tion among  whom  she  moves,  to  be  set  down  in  a  poky 
house  in  the  suburbs  to  live  on  a  few  hundreds  a  year." 

Hugh  looked  somewhat  surprised  at  this  outburst, 
and  more  than  a  little  displeased.  "  May  I  ask  what 
you  suggest?  "  he  said,  with  his  brows  bent. 

"  What  I  suggest  is  that  you  should  both  live  here 
with  me.  For  my  own  sake  I  do  not  want  to  lose  my 
daughter,  and  I  cannot  see  that  it  is  necessary.  I 
have  more  than  enough  for  my  own  needs,  and  am  quite 
willing — more  than  willing — to  share  it  with  you." 

Hugh  thought  for  a  moment.  "  It  is  a  generous 
proposal,"  he  said,  "  but  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  accept 
it,  Mrs.  Churton.  It  would  never  occur  to  me  to  marry 
unless  I  could  support  my  wife  myself.  If  Mabilia  is 
willing  to  share  my  life  she  will  share  it  all.  Five  hun- 
dred a  year  is  not  poverty.  She  will  miss  very  little 
that  she  has  been  accustomed  to." 

"  Now,  my  dear  Hugh,"  expostulated  Mrs.  Churton, 
"  do  listen  to  reason.  I  am  not  asking  you  to  live  here 


200  MANY   JUNES 

as  my  pensioner.  If  you  please  you  may  share  in  the 
expenses  of  the  house,  although  I  do  not  wish  it,  and  it 
is  not  necessary.  You  will  have  this  room  to  yourself. 
I  have  thought  it  all  over.  I  shall  move  all  my  things 
upstairs,  and  you  may  decorate  and  furnish  it  as  you 
please.  I  should  have  liked  to  furnish  it  for  you  myself, 
as  my  wedding  present,  but  I  know  you  have  your  own 
things,  and  will  prefer  to  have  them.  It  will  be  en- 
tirely your  own." 

"  You  are  very  generous,  Mrs.  Churton,  but  I  am  not 
thinking  entirely  of  myself." 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Mabilia  already  has  her  own 
boudoir.  You  will  both  have  your  own  quarters  as 
much  to  yourselves  as  if  I  were  not  in  the  house.  In 
the  daytime  when  you  are  away  at  your  work  Mabilia 
will  not  be  left  alone.  You  ought  to  think  of  her, 
Hugh,  and  what  she  will  gain  by  continuing  to  live 
here." 

"  I  don't  want  to  seem  ungrateful  for  so  much  kind- 
ness, but,  to  speak  plainly,  I  would  rather  live  in  my 
own  house,  even  if  it  must  be  a  small  one.  And  I  think 
Mabilia  would  certainly  wish  it  too." 

"Will  you  ask  her  then?  But  there  is  no  need  to 
settle  anything  in  a  hurry.  We  can  talk  it  all  over. 
Whatever  is  decided,  my  dear  Hugh,  I  feel  sure  that 
you  and  Mabilia  will  be  very  happy  together,  and  I  am 
unfeignedly  glad  that  this  engagement  has  taken  place." 
She  rose  from  her  table  with  a  face  that  seemed  to 
show  her  pleasure  to  be  genuine.  Hugh  was  slightly 
embarrassed  by  her  warmth.  "  You  are  very  kind,"  he 


PLANS  201 

said  awkwardly,  and  they  went  upstairs  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  Mabilia  was  sitting. 

Hugh  stayed  to  dinner  that  evening  and  afterwards 
talked  to  Mabilia  alone.  He  told  her  of  her  mother's 
suggestion.  "  I  could  not  say  much  to  her,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile,  "  but  I  knew  that  your  wish  was  to  get 
away  from  the  kind  of  life  which  Mrs.  Churton  believes 
to  be  the  only  one  you  care  to  live.  I  knew  that  you 
would  be  happier,  as  I  should,  in  a  house  of  your  own, 
even  if  it  is  not  a  very  big  one." 

Mabilia  looked  down,  plaiting  a  fold  of  her  skirt. 
"  I  think  if  mother  wishes  it  very  much,"  she  said,  "  we 
ought  to  consider  her.  She  would  be  very  lonely  in  this 
big  house  all  by  herself." 

"  I  am  thinking  of  you — of  ourselves,"  replied  Hugh, 
"  not  of  your  mother." 

"  But  we  must  think  of  her  a  little,  mustn't  we?  She 
has  always  had  me  with  her.  She  would  miss  me  ter- 
ribly." 

"  Have  you  talked  over  this  plan  with  Mrs.  Chur- 
ton ?  "  Hugh  asked  her. 

"  How  can  I  have  talked  over  anything  yet?  She 
did  just  mention  it,  before  dinner." 

"  Would  you  prefer  to  live  here  as  she  suggests  ?  " 

"  Oh !  Hugh,  don't  speak  like  that.  You  know  I  will 
do  whatever  you  wish." 

"  But  I  want  to  speak  of  what  you  wish.  Will  you 
tell  me  definitely  whether  you  would  rather  go  on  living 
here — the  life  you  told  me,  often,  you  disliked — or  that 
we  should  be  together  in  our  own  house  ?  " 


202  MANY   JUNES 

"  You  know  which  I  should  prefer,  for  my  own  sake ; 
but  if  it  is  a  matter  of  duty " 

Then  at  last  he  understood.  *'  I  must  think  over  it," 
he  said  quietly.  "  Now  I  think  I  will  say  good-night." 

A  sharp  wind  blew  against  him  as  he  left  the  house. 
The  long  street  looked  dreary  and  confined,  the  rather 
pretentious  porticoes  on  either  side  of  it  seemed  to 
guard  the  entrance  to  dull  houses  with  no  hint  of  home 
about  them,  houses  with  heavy  ugly  furniture  and  no 
brightness  or  warmth.  He  looked  up  at  the  sky,  in 
which  a  cold  moon  was  riding  half  obscured  by  scudding 
clouds.  His  eye  was  caught  by  a  row  of  windows  high 
up  in  one  of  the  houses,  protected  by  white-painted 
iron  bars.  Behind  them  were  nurseries,  and  little  chil- 
dren sleeping  in  rooms  faintly  illumined.  There  were 
happy  homes  behind  the  dull  fronts  of  the  houses  in 
the  Cromwell  Road. 

He  turned  off  into  a  narrow  street  and  let  himself 
into  the  house  in  which  he  lived.  He  turned  up  the  gas 
in  his  sitting-room,  sat  down  at  his  writing-table,  un- 
locked a  drawer  and  took  from  it  the  photograph 
of  his  sister  and  her  child,  and  looked  at  it  long  and 
sadly. 

Hugh  told  Mrs.  Churton  the  next  day  that  as  she 
and  MabilUa  seemed  to  be  in  agreement  on  the  point 
he  would  consent  to  occupy  her  house  after  his  mar- 
riage. He  spoke  rather  stiffly  and  not  as  if  he  were 
accepting  a  favour,  and  he  insisted  upon  contributing 
the  greater  part  of  his  income  towards  the  expenses 
of  the  household. 


PLANS  203 

"  But,  my  dear  Hugh,"  expostulated  Mrs.  Churton, 
"  your  living  here  will  not  cost  me  anything  like  four 
hundred  a  year.  The  house  is  my  own,  and  it  does  not 
take  much  more  than  that  to  run  it  entirely." 

"  That  is  the  only  condition  on  which  I  can  consent 
to  live  here,"  Hugh  replied,  and  with  a  glance  aside  at 
him  Mrs.  Churton  gave  way. 

It  was  settled  that  the  wedding  was  to  take  place 
in  the  middle  of  July,  when  Hugh  would  have  a  month's 
holiday,  which  they  were  to  spend  honeymooning  in 
Switzerland.  It  soon  became  apparent  that  the  cere- 
mony was  to  be  made  as  elaborate  as  possible.  From 
the  first  week  it  was  talked  about  whenever  Hugh  was 
present,  details  were  discussed  fervently,  both  by  Mrs. 
Churton  and  Mabilia,  and  there  was  a  constant  can- 
vassing of  people  who  were  or  were  not  to  be  invited. 
One  evening  Hugh  was  sitting  in  the  room  which  was  to 
become  his  own,  in  the  company  of  Mrs.  Churton. 
Mabila  had  left  them  alone  together.  Mrs.  Churton,  at 
her  table  with  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  said: 
"  I  should  like  to  read  you  the  provisional  list  of  peo- 
ple we  have  decided  on." 

"  Surely,"  replied  Hugh,  with  some  impatience, 
"  there  is  no  necessity  to  go  into  that  now !  We  are 
still  three  months  off  the  day." 

"  We  cannot  begin  too  early,"  said  Mrs.  Churton. 
"  I  am  methodical,  and  like  to  have  something  to  work 
on.  Then  we  can  add  to  it  as  names  occur  to  us,  and 
no  one  will  be  forgotten.  My  first  names  are  Sir 
Thomas  and  Lady  Ponder,  Sir  James  and  Lady " 


204  MANY   JUNES 

"  I  do  not  care  to  hear  them,  Mrs.  Churton,"  Hugh 
interrupted.  "  I  can  safely  leave  all  that  to  you." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Churton.  "  I  have  the  list 
of  our  friends,  which  can  be  added  to.  But  I  may  as 
well  begin  to  put  down  those  whom  you  wish  to  be 
invited." 

"  You  might  ask  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kynaston,  if  you 
please,"  said  Hugh.  "  I  have  no  other  friends  in  Eng- 
land." 

Mrs.  Churton  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  tapped 
the  table  with  her  pencil.  "  You  would  like  an  invita- 
tion sent  to — to  your  cousins,  I  suppose  ?  "  she  said. 

Hugh  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "  What  cousins  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Sir  Richard  and  Lady  Lelacheur,"  replied  Mrs. 
Churton.  "  I  know  that  there  has  been  some  family 
disagreement,  but  on  an  occasion  like  this 

Hugh's  face  became  dark.  "  I  have  not  the  slight- 
est acquaintance  with  Sir  Richard  and  Lady  Lelacheur," 
he  interrupted.  "  Certainly  I  do  not  want  them  asked, 
Mrs.  Churton." 

"  Please  do  not  be  so  impatient,  Hugh,"  proceeded 
Mrs.  Churton  in  an  even  voice.  "  As  I  understand,  it 
was  your  father  and  not  yourself  who  quarrelled  with 
the  head  of  your  family,  and " 

Hugh  interrupted  her  again.  "  You  will  oblige  me 
by  not  referring  again  to  my  relations,"  he  said,  in  a 
cold,  decisive  voice,  and  Mrs.  Churton,  after  a  glance  at 
his  face,  desisted. 

She  often  now  cast  these  inquiring  half-bewildered 


PLANS  205 

looks  at  him.  Since  his  engagement  he  seemed  to  have 
altered  completely.  His  courtesy  to  her  remained  the 
same,  but  the  determined  utterance  of  his  will  when 
they  were  at  issue — as  now  frequently  happened — was 
something  she  had  by  no  means  looked  for.  She  was 
beginning  to  feel  doubtful  whether  she  had  been  wise 
in  pressing  him  to  begin  his  married  life  in  her  house. 
Certainly  she  would  not  gain  a  useful  subservient  male, 
to  fall  in  with  her  manner  of  living  and  add  to  her  op- 
portunities. That  had  become  so  plain  that  it  hardly 
seemed  possible  that  she  could  at  one  time  have  cast 
Hugh  for  that  role  in  anticipation.  If  he  came  into  her 
house  he  would  do  so  as  its  master. 

And  his  attitude  to  Mabilia  had  changed,  not  at 
all  in  the  way  of  becoming  more  loverlike.  In  her  more 
expansive  moments  of  self-communion  Mrs.  Churton, 
sometimes  said  that  Mabilia  was  broken-hearted.  Ma- 
bilia had  been  dedicated  to  marriage  in  her  mother's 
mind  for  the  past  twelve  years  or  so,  but  falling  in  love 
with  her  destined  husband  had  never  occurred  to  Mrs. 
Churton  as  a  necessary  factor  in  the  process.  Mabilia 
knew  very  well  what  she  wanted  in  life,  and  Mrs.  Chur- 
ton regarded  her  as  wanting  exactly  the  same  things  as 
herself,  although  she  admitted,  when  she  thought  it 
over,  that  Mabilia's  methods  of  gaining  her  ends  were 
more  subtle  than  her  own,  and  possibly  more  effective. 
In  this  proposal  of  marriage  which  had  at  last  come 
to  her,  redeemed  from  being  a  mere  taking  of  the  best 
that  offered  by  the  prospective  bridegroom's  connec- 
tions, the  surprising  thing  had  happened.  Mabilia,  who 


206 

had  looked  out  from  hard  cold  eyes  at  her  vanishing 
youth  so  long  that  no  desire  seemed  to  remain  to  her  in 
matrimony  but  that  of  a  husband  either  rich  enough  or 
well  born  enough  to  bring  her  some  added  considera- 
tion, had  softened  before  this  dark  melancholy  man 
who  had  been  willing  to  make  a  friend  of  her,  and  she 
had  expressed  herself  willing  even  to  share  poverty  with 
him  if  he  so  desired  it.  The  evening  before  Mrs.  Chur- 
ton's  last  recorded  conversation  with  Hugh,  Mabilia 
had  said  to  her: 

"  Mother,  I  wish  you  had  not  persuaded  me  to  ask 
him  to  live  here.     He  has  never  been  the  same  to  me 


since. 
« 


My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Churton,  "  you  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  buried  yourself  in  a  poky  little  house  in  the 
suburbs.  You  would  have  been  miserable." 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  replied  Mabilia ;  "  I  don't  think  I 
should  have  been  miserable.  If  only  he  had  pressed  me 
a  little  more!  I  should  not  have  stood  out;  I  hardly 
wanted  to.  I  suppose  the  fact  is  he  didn't  care  for  me 
enough.  Directly  he  saw  what  I  wanted  he  gave  way 
at  once.  But  he  is  displeased  to  find  out  that  I  did 
want  it.  Now,  he  is  just  making  the  best  of  his  promise. 
But  there  is  to  be  no  love  between  us.  He  is  not  so  nice 
to  me  as  he  was  before  we  were  engaged." 

*'  He  was  always  cold  and  reserved." 

"  Not  always,  to  me.  And  I  believe,  if  we  had  been 
arranging  now  for  our  own  home,  it  would  have  brought 
us  more  together.  I  am  very  wretched." 

"  For  goodness  sake,  child,  don't  begin  to  grizzle," 


PLANS  207 

said  Mrs.  Churton.  They  were  sitting  before  the  fire 
in  Mabilia's  room.  "  It  is  not  in  the  least  like  you, 
and  you  have  everything  in  your  own  hands.  If  you 
think  that  he  will  behave  more  as  you  wish  him  to  in  a 
semi-detached  villa,  by  all  means  take  one.  It  is  a 
curious  taste,  but  you  know  best  what  you  can  do  with- 
out. I  won't  stand  in  your  way  for  an  instant." 

Mabilia  dried  her  eyes  and  sat  upright  in  her  chair. 
"  No,"  she  said.  "  It  is  too  late  now.  If  he  is  pleased 
to  be  disappointed  in  me,  I  can't  help  it.  I  shall  have 
everything  that  I  could  ever  have  expected  from  mar- 
riage— at  my  age :  it  would  have  been  much  too  great  a 
risk  to  give  it  all  up  for  something  I  never  have  ex- 
pected— and  probably  shouldn't  have  got." 

It  was  true  that  Hugh's  attitude  towards  Mabilia  had 
changed.  He  was  invariably  gravely  polite  to  her,  but 
even  the  slight  intimacy  that  had  existed  between  them 
before  their  engagement  had  disappeared.  He  was  like 
one  fulfilling  a  bargain  at  the  least  possible  expense. 
He  dined  with  her  and  her  mother  every  Wednesday 
night,  and  spent  either  Saturday  afternoon  and  evening, 
or  Sunday,  with  them,  never  both.  He  never  came  to 
the  house  unexpectedly,  and  never  wrote  to  Mabilia  ex- 
cept in  answer  to  a  note  upon  some  matter  of  detail. 
He  had  suggested  this  extreme  limit  of  intercourse  him- 
self, immediately  after  the  question  of  their  place  of 
abode  had  been  decided,  and  had  opposed  to  Mrs.  Chur- 
ton's  expostulations  and  Mabilia's  air  of  offence  a  quiet 
firmness  which  contained  neither  retraction  nor  expla- 
nation. 


208  MANY   JUNES 

One  evening  at  the  dinner- table,  as  Easter  drew 
near,  Mrs.  Churton  proposed  that  he  should  accom- 
pany them  for  a  few  days  to  the  Isle  of  Wight.  "  We 
generally  have  a  week  or  ten  days'  jaunt  then,"  she  said. 
*'  It  is  impossible  to  remain  in  town  when  everybody 
else  is  away." 

\    "  I  am  sorry  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  come  with 
you,"  said  Hugh.     "  I  have  other  plans." 

Mrs.  Churton's  rather  highly  coloured  face  took  on  a 
slight  shade  of  purple.  "  Other  plans !  "  she  echoed. 
"  Surely,  Hugh,  you  do  not  intend  to  stay  away  with- 
out Mabilia — and  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  down  into  Dorsetshire  by  myself," 
Hugh  replied  shortly. 

Mrs.  Churton  hesitated  a  moment,  and  Hugh  pre- 
vented her  from  pursuing  the  matter  further  by  speak- 
ing again  in  an  even  voice  upon  some  subject  they  had 
previously  been  discussing. 

When  the  ladies  went  up  into  the  drawing-room 
Mrs.  Churton  said :  "  Really,  Mabilia,  you  must  speak 
to  Hugh  about  this.  He  behaves  himself  as  if  he  were 
an  entirely  free  man.  *  Going  down  to  Dorsetshire  by 
myself/  forsooth !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing !  " 

"  He  is  going  to  Foyle,  where  his  little  niece  died. 
I  suppose  she  is  buried  there,  though  he  has  never  told 
me  so,  and  he  will  not  talk  about  her  or  his  sister.  He 
went  down  there  before  he  went  to  Rome  at  Christmas." 
She  spoke  in  a  passionless  voice,  looking  into  the  fire. 

"  Is  he  always  going  to  hide  up  his  past  life  from 
you  as  if  you  were  the  completest  stranger  ?  "  inquired 


PLANS  209 

Mrs.  Churton  warmly.  "  That  I  should  certajnly  not 
permit,  Mabilia." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  a  question  of  my  permitting," 
said  Mabilia,  in  the  same  low  tone.  "  He  did  talk  to 
nie  just  a  very  little  about  his  sister  before  we  were 
engaged,  but  he  has  never  done  so  since.  You  can  see 
for  yourself,  mother,  that  it  is  of  no  use  my  saying  any- 
thing. He  will  do  as  he  pleases." 

But  she  did  go  down  to  the  hall  with  him  that  eve- 
ning as  he  was  leaving  the  house,  and  helped  him  on  with 
his  overcoat.  "  Hugh,"  she  said,  "  are  you  going  down 
to  Foyle  at  Easter?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  with  you." 

Hugh  turned  away  and  took  his  hat  from  the  hall 
stand.  "  Thank  you,  Mabilia,"  he  said,  "  I  will  go 
alone.  Good-night." 

It  was  some  weeks  after  this  that  Mabilia,  egged  on 
by  her  mother,  summoned  up  courage  to  address  Hugh 
herself  upon  the  subject  of  his  relations.  "  Hugh," 
she  said,  "  I  hope  you  will  not  be  annoyed  at  my  men- 
tioning it.  Is  it  quite  out  of  the  question  that  you 
should  let  your  cousins  know  of  our  engagement  ?  " 

"  My  cousins  probably  already  know  of  our  engage- 
ment," replied  Hugh  stiffly,  "  as  Mrs.  Churton  took  the 
precaution  of  advertising  it  in  the  newspapers." 

There  was  too  much  at  stake  for  Mabilia  to  draw 
herself  up  stiffly  in  return.  "  I  am  sorry  you  objected 
to  that,"  she  said  mildly.  "  Of  course,  you  ought  to 
have  been  consulted,  but  an  announcement  in  The  Morn- 


210  MANY  JUNES 

ing  Post  is  so  much  the  usual  thing  that  we  never 
thought  you  would  have  minded." 

What  Hugh  had  expressed  himself  about  with  some 
severity  was  his  published  identification  as  "  son  of  the 
late  Admiral  Lelacheur,  C.B.,  and  nephew  of  the  late 
Sir  Simeon  Lelacheur,  Bart." 

"  We  need  say  no  more  about  that,"  he  replied,  "  and 
I  should  like  you  to  understand,  if  you  really  do  not 
understand  already,  that  Sir  Richard  Lelacheur  is  as 
much  a  stranger  to  me  as  if  we  did  not  bear  the  same 
name,  and  I  do  not  understand  why  you  and  Mrs.  Chur- 
ton  should  be  so  persistent  in  bringing  his  namle  up. 
At  least,"  he  added,  with  a  shade  of  contempt  in  his 
voice,  "  I  suppose  I  do  understand  perfectly  well." 

Mabilia  flushed  scarlet.  "  I  shall  never  mention  his 
name  again,"  she  said.  "  But  you  don't  seem  to  realize 
that,  with  all  our  friends  who  are  coming  to  the  wed- 
ding, for  you  to  stand  absolutely  alone  will  seem  curi- 
ous. It  will  certainly  seem  as  if  you  were  ashamed  of 
marrying  me." 

"  I  do  stand  absolutely  alone,  Mabilia,"  he  replied, 
more  kindly.  "  You  are  not  marrying  the  nephew  of  a 
baronet;  you  'are  marrying  a  clerk  in  an  Insurance 
office.  If  I  had  not  thought  you  understood  that,  and 
were  prepared  to  share  my  obscurity,  I  should  not  have 
asked  you  to  marry  me  at  all.  If  you  are  dissatisfied 
with  me,  you  can  take  back  your  consent.  I  shall  not 
blame  you." 

If  the  wedding  day  had  been  farther  off;  if  the 
numerous  acquaintances  of  the  Churtons  had  been  told 


PLANS  211 

less  of  the  satisfactory  match .  Mabilia  was  about  to 
make;  if  they  had  not  already  begun  to  respond  with 
silver,  glass,  and  plated  tokens ;  or  if  Hugh  had  claimed 
his  freedom  with  more  energy,  he  might  have  won  it 
then;  for  Mabilia  was  beginning  to  look  forward  with 
some  apprehension  to  her  married  life,  and  was  tired  of 
the  always  present,  but  never  openly  declared,  feeling 
of  having  been  found  out.  But  she  said  confusedly: 
"  Of  course,  I  took  you  for  yourself  alone,"  and  the 
preparations  for  the  wedding  went  on. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

WYSE    HALL 

PKOBABLY  there  were  in  England  few  men  of  middle 
age  whomj  the  gods  had  blessed  more  abundantly  than 
Sir  Richard  Lelacheur.  He  had  his  beautiful  historic 
house  in  Suffolk,  and  a  rich  estate  around  it;  he  had 
a  large  house  in  Grosvenor  Square ;  he  had  a  fine  steam- 
yacht,  in  which  he  loved  to  take  his  pleasure;  and  he 
had  more  than  enough  money  to  enable  him  to  extract 
the  full  amount  of  gratification  from  these  temporal 
possessions.  He  had  besides  a  wife  from  whom  he  was 
seldom  willingly  parted,  and  a  family  of  which  he  was 
very  proud.  His  eldest  son  was  nearing  twenty ;  then 
came  three  girls  some  years  younger,  and  then  three 
more  boys  of  between  five  and  eight. 

At  the  time  of  Hugh's  engagement,  England  was 
carrying  on  one  of  those  little  frontier  wars  which 
come  and  go,  leaving  little  mark  behind  them  in  a  na- 
tion's memory.  Only  in  scattered  homes,  gentle  and 
simple,  the  loss  of  a  life  may  serve  to  fix  painfully  a 
date,  or  the  hitherto  unknown  locality  of  a  petty  skir- 
mish. -Sir  Richard  Lelacheur's  eldest  son,  who  had  only 
just  obtained  his  commission,  was  killed  in  action  with 
a  handful  of  his  men  in  the  last  engagement  before 
the  capitulation  of  the  enemy.  Almost  before  the  news 
reached  England  a  still  greater  tragedy  had  changed 

212 


WYSE   HALL  213 

the  whole  of  Hugh's  future.  His  cousin,  with  the  rest 
of  his  family,  was  coming  home  from  Madeira  in  his 
yacht.  She  was  run  down  on  a  foggy  night  by  a  great 
liner  in  mid-ocean,  and  all  on  board  but  a  few  of  the 
crew  were  drowned. 

Hugh  learnt  the  news  as  he  left  his  office  to  go  out 
to  luncheon.  An  evening  paper  had  printed  it,  and  the 
street  was  full  of  crying  newsboys,  fluttering  monstrous 
headlines.  He  bought  a  paper,  and  was  struck  with 
horror  at  what  he  read.  The  vision  rose  up  before  him 
of  a  kind  gentle  old  man,  with  whom  he  had  talked 
many  years  before.  He  had  spoken  of  his  son  and  of 
the  one  grandchild  that  had  then  been  born — the  young 
man  who  now  lay  in  his  grave  in  the  far-off  hills.  Sud- 
denly, Hugh's  cousins,  whom  he  had  never  seen,  became 
real  to  him,  and  the  terrible  catastrophe  a  personal 
sorrow. 

It  seemed  impossible  to  believe  in  so  complete  a  dis- 
aster without  corroboration.  It  occurred  to  him  to  go 
and  see  Mr.  Burham,  whose  offices  were  not  far  away. 
He  took  a  cab,  and  met  the  lawyer  at  the  door  of  his 
office.  Mr.  Burham  was  little  altered,  merely  a  shade 
greyer  and  a  shade  thinner.  His  face  changed  as  he 
recognized  Hugh,  "  Ah !  come  in,"  he  said ;  "  this  is  a 
shocking  business,"  and  he  led  the  way  into  his  private 
room. 

"  Have  you  had  private  news?  "  asked  Hugh,  in  some 
excitement.  "  Surely  some  of  them  must  have  been 
saved ! " 

Mr.  Burham  looked  at  hLn  closely.     His  voice  was 


214  MANY  JUNES 

harder  as  he  replied:  "Not  one.  I  have  just  had  a 
telephone  message  from  Mr.  Caird,  Sir  Richard's  so- 
licitor. He  supposed  I  was  acting  for  you.  I  told  him 
I  did  not  wish  to  take  the  business  from  him,  in  any 
case.  I  am  just  about  to  retire.  I  will  refer  you  to 
Mr.  Gaird  himself." 

Hugh  had  sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair,  and  heard 
Mr.  Burham's  level  voice  without  taking  in  the  mean- 
ing of  his  speech. 

"  It  is  terrible,"  he  said,  passing  his  hand  over  his 
forehead. 

"  You  have  lost  no  time  in  coming  to  me,"  said  Mr. 
Burham  drily. 

"  No,"  replied  Hugh.  "  I  had  just  seen  the  news. 
Well,  I  will  not  keep  you  longer,  Mr.  Burham,"  and  he 
rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  You  will 
want  the  address  of  Mr.  Caird." 

"  Mr.  Caird?  "  repeated  Hugh.  "  Oh  ye's,  Sir  Rich- 
ard's lawyer.  No;  I  don't  think  I  want  to  see  him. 
You  have  confirmed  the  news — unhappily." 

"But  you  must  see  him  some  time,  and  you  may  as 
well  see  him  at  once,"  said  Mr.  Burham.  "  There  will 
be  an  immense  lot  of  business  to  be  done." 

"Business?"  Hugh  looked  at  him;  and  then  his 
face  went  white,  changed  to  red  and  went  white  again. 
He  sat  down,  still  staring  at  the  lawyer.  "  I  never 
thought  of  that,"  he  said. 

"  V  ell,  then,  I  did  you  an  injustice,"  replied  Mr. 
Burham,  mere  in  his  natural  tone.  "  I  thought  you 


WYSE   HALL  215 

had  come  running  here  in  a  hurry  to  make  sure  of  your 
new  possessions.  But  I  see  you  didn't,  and  I  apologize. 
Yes;  it's  a  shocking  affair,  as  all  may  see.  But  there 
are  some  compensations  as  far  as  you  are  concerned, 
and  I  believe  you  never  knew  your  cousins.  You  are 
the  only  remaining  member  of  your  family?  and  you 
step  straight  into  the  dead  man's  shoes — title,  estates, 
money,  and  everything — for  Mr.  Caird  tells  me  he  left 
no  will.  He  was  always  about  to  mlake  one,  but  put  it 
off  from  time  to  time.  It  is  often  the  way.  You  had 
better  see  Mr.  Caird  himself  about  it.  Here  is  his  ad- 
dress. He  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  would  advise  you 
to  leave  your  affairs  in  his  hands." 

Hugh  got  out  of  the  room  somehow.  He  could 
realize  nothing  of  what  had  happened  to  him.  Regret 
for  the  terrible  tragedy  was  still  the  feeling  uppermost 
in  his  mind,  and  he  laid  no  fingers  as  yet  upon  the 
change  in  his  own  future.  He  forgot  the  sheet  of  paper 
in  his  pocket  upon  which  Mr.  Burham  had  written  the 
address  of  Sir  Richard's  lawyer.  He  went  to  his  usual 
place  for  lunch,  and  afterwards  went  back  to  his  work. 
He  did  what  he  had  to  do  mechanically,  his  thoughts 
far  away,  and  when,  after  he  had  sat  at  his  desk  for 
an  hour,  a  question  came  up  which  required  some  con- 
centration to  decide  upon,  he  handed  his  papers  to  a 
subordinate  clerk  and  left  the  office. 

Mr.  Caird  received  him  with  grave  respect.  He  was 
an  iron-grey  man  with  the  air  of  a  family  physician. 
"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  since  two  o'clock,  Sir 
Hugh,"  he  said. 


216  MANY   JUNES 

The  unexpected  use  of  the  title  cut  its  way  through 
the  confusion  which  muffled  Hugh's  brain,  and  let  in 
some  realization  of  the  immense  change  which  had  come 
upon  him.  From  that  moment  the  terrible  fact  of  a 
whole  family's  destruction,  which  had  brought  about 
the  change,  began  to  recede  in  importance,  and  the  stu- 
pendous good  fortune  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  enjoy 
expanded  before  him.  He  spent  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon, till  a  late  hour,  with  the  lawyer,  went  home  to 
dine  with  him,  and  got  back  to  his  rooms  late  at  night. 

The  whole  of  the  next  day  he  spent  in  Mr.  Caird's 
office,  engaged  in  business  as  arduous  as  any  he  had 
known  during  the  fifteen  years  of  his  business  life.  As 
he  bent  his  attention  to  the  papers  and  figures  which  the 
lawyer  put  before  him  quick  gleams  of  pleasure  began 
to  shoot  across  his  brain.  The  old  Elizabethan  house, 
in  its  setting  of  ordered  garden  and  wide  landscape  of 
sun-steeped  meadow,  stream,  and  woodland,  began  to 
impress  itself  on  his  imagination.  At  the  end  of  the 
day's  work  he  had  to  recall  to  himself  with  an  effort 
the  price  at  which  it  had  become  his. 

Surely,  no  one  had  ever  yet  experienced  so  be- 
wildering a  change  of  fortune.  Without  any  interven- 
ing time  of  expectation  he  could  step  straight  into  his 
new  position  and  find  himself  in  command  of  all  that 
complex  machinery  that  supports  the  duties  and  pleas- 
ures of  a  rich  landowner.  The  house  in  London  had 
been  let  for  the  season,  but  Wyse  Hall,  the  beautiful 
and  historic  home  of  his  fathers,  ready  for  its  former 
master's  return,  needed  no  further  preparation  for  its 


WYSE   HALL  217 

new  one  than  a  message  to  say  when  he  was  coming 
to  it. 

On  the  second  evening  again  he  dined  with  Mr.  Caird. 
The  agent  of  the  Suffolk  property  had  been  summoned 
to  town  to  meet  him.  He  had  held  his  position  only 
since  the  beginning  of  the  year,  and  had  seen  next  to 
nothing  of  his  employer,  who  had  been  first  in  London 
and  then  on  his  yacht.  He  was,  therefore,  less  inclined 
than  he  might  have  been  to  dwell  on  the  tragic  cause  of 
his  presence  at  Mr.  Caird's  dinner-table,  and  quite  ready 
to  pour  out  information  and  description  for  the  benefit 
of  the  new  owner.  He  was  a  youngish,  energetic,  rather 
horsey-looking  man,  with  a  ready  tongue.  Hugh  was 
not  inclined  to  take  readily  to  him,  but  treated  him 
with  his  usual  reserved,  rather  distant  courtesy. 

The  three  men  sat  after  dinner  drinking  their  wine 
in  the  lawyer's  dining-room,  pleasantly  facing  on  to 
Kensington  Gardens.  The  window  was  open  to  the 
soft  breezes  of  the  summer  evening,  which,  even  in  Lon- 
don at  its  most  crowded  time,  carry  the  thoughts  away 
to  country  meadows,  knee  deep  in  grass  and  flowers, 
whispers  of  leaves  under  a  quiet  sky,  and  all  the  sweet 
sounds  and  scents  of  June. 

"  I  shall  go  down  to  Wyse  Hall  tomorrow,"  said 
Hugh  abruptly.  "  We  have  settled  everything  that 
needs  to  be  settled,  I  think;  and  the  rest  can  wait." 

He  walked  home  presently  across  the  park.  His 
old  life  was  behind  him,  and  his  thoughts  were  full  of 
pleasant  anticipation.  When  he  reached  his  rooms  he 
found  a  note  awaiting  him  from  Mabilia  Churton.  If 


218  MANY   JUNES 

he  had  thought  of  her  at  all  during  these  last  two  days 
it  had  been  with  the  surface  of  his  brain  only.  This 
was  one  of  the  evenings  on  which  he  dined  regularly  at 
her  mother's  house.  He  had  entirely  forgotten  the  fact. 
The  note  was  tentatively  reproachful,  alluded  to  the 
change  in  his  fortunes,  and  was  addressed  to  him  as  Sir 
Hugh  Lelacheur,  Bart.  A  momentary  compunction  seized 
him  at  having  failed  to  send  a  message  excusing  his  ab- 
sence that  evening.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  a  hurried 
reply  to  Mabilia's  letter.  He  had  been  so  busy  that  he 
had  not  a  moment  to  himself.  He  had  been  obliged  to 
dine  with  his  lawyer  that  evening,  and  was  sorry  that  in 
his  hurry  he  had  omitted  to  send  word  to  that  effect.  He 
was  going  down  to  Suffolk  the  next  morning,  and  would 
write  to  her  from  there.  He  went  out  and  posted  the 
note  himself,  and  before  he  had  dropped  it  into  a 
pillar-box  Mabilia  and  her  mother  had  gone  out  of 
his  head. 

Hugh  left  London  the  next  morning,  and  arrived  in 
the  afternoon  at  the  little  wayside  station  which  was 
the  nearest  to  Wyse  Hall,  but  even  then  six  miles  off. 
The  head  coachman  had  thought  it  fitting  that  on  this 
his  first  entrance  to  his  new  kingdom  he  should  be 
conveyed  to  the  home  of  his  ancestors  in  the  stately 
barouche  which  was  waiting  for  him.  The  station- 
master  opened  the  door  of  his  compartment,  and  a  foot- 
man took  over  his  modest  Gladstone  bag  from  the 
porter,  an  obvious  curiosity  tempering  the  respectful 
demeanour  of  all  three  of  them.  The  coachman  touched 
his  hat  from  his  seat  of  state.  He  and  the  footman  had 


WYSE   HALL  219 

bands  of  crape  on  their  arms,  but  were  otherwise  re- 
splendent in  liveries  more  elaborate  than  ordinary. 

The  little  branch-line  train  steamed  off  fussily,  and 
Hugh  found  himself  rolling  through  drowsy  country 
lanes,  with  the  westering  sun  shining  over  fields  where 
the  haymakers  were  at  work.  The  wide  deep-grassed 
meadows,  the  green  woods,  the  flower-decked  hedgerows, 
the  old  villages  with  their  thatched  and  garden- 
bordered  cottages,  and  the  square  towers  of  their  great 
churches,  the  leisurely  country  people  who  turned  to 
stare  at  him  on  the  road — all  appealed  to  him  with  an 
immeasurable  sense  of  restfulness,  after  the  hurry  of  the 
last  two  days  and  the  monotonous  dulness  of  his  Lon- 
don life.  As  the  miles  went  by,  and  he  thought  that  he 
must  be  getting  near  his  journey's  end,  his  content 
began  to  be  touched  with  excitement,  which  held  him 
entirely  when  the  carriage  rolled  through  a  pair  of  iron 
gates,  flanked  by  two  lodges  of  weather-beaten  brick 
and  stone,  and  entered  a  level  park  of  beech  and  oak 
and  fern,  through  the  trees  of  which,  not  far  off,  he 
could  see  the  stately  length  of  the  old  Elizabethan  hall, 
with  its  carved  and  mullioned  windows,  high-pitched 
roofs  and  twisted  chimney-stacks. 

Tea  was  brought  to  him  in  a  pleasant  morning- 
room,  opening  on  to  the  beautiful  gardens  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  The  room  had  been  in  constant  use  by  the 
family  of  his  cousin.  Their  books  and  music,  the  photo- 
graphs of  their  friends,  and  all  the  many  little  things 
that  give  a  living-room  something  of  the  character  of  its 
inhabitants,  were  scattered  about  it.  It  was  difficult 


220  MANY   JUNES 

to  believe  that  those  who  had  lived  their  easy  life  in  it 
would  occupy  it  no  more,  that  their  intimate  possessions 
had  lost  their  meaning,  which  seemed,  indeed,  rudely 
wrenched  away  from  them,  since  they  now  belonged, 
the  largest  and  the  smallest,  to  him,  a  stranger. 

He  refused  the  offer  of  the  staid  housekeeper  to 
show  him  over  the  rooms,  feeling  a  sense  of  shame  that 
he,  a  Lelacheur,  should  know  as  little  of  the  contents 
of  his  historic  house  as  any  summer  tourist.  And  he 
wanted  to  be  alone,  to  enjoy  it  with  himself.  He,  Sir 
Hugh  Lelacheur  of  Wyse  Hall,  wanted  to  take  himself, 
as  Hugh  Lelacheur,  the  London  clerk,  by  the  hand,  to 
show  him  all  the  treasures  of  his  house  and  to  watch 
his  wondering  appreciation  of  them. 

So  for  an  hour  he  wandered  over  the  great  house, 
with  no  one  but  his  old  self  to  bear  him  company. 
The  servants  were  in  their  own  quarters,  busily  en- 
gaged, no  doubt,  in  discussing  him.  He  went  through 
the  beautiful  rooms,  so  full  of  gracious  memories  of  the 
past,  and  lingered  in  the  long  library,  flooded  with 
afternoon  sunlight,  which  threw  patterns  of  armorial 
glass  on  the  faded  floor,  through  windows  looking  on  to 
lawns  and  cedars.  It  was  very  old  and  very  quiet,  with 
wonderfully  carved  ranges  of  bookshelves,  full  of  calf 
and  vellum  bound  quartos  and  folios,  with  massive 
carved  oak  tables  and  high  carved  chairs,  seated  with 
cane  or  cushioned  velvet,  and  at  either  end  great  open 
fireplaces  surmounted  by  marble  chimneypieces. 

He  penetrated  into  other  rooms  that  had  been  more 
intimately  occupied  by  those  whose  place  he  was  now 


WYSE   HALL  221 

filling.  In  the  midst  of  satisfaction  sorrow  came  to 
him  again.  Little  children  had  run  about  the  oaken 
floors  and  called  down  the  wide  staircases.  He  saw  their 
rooms — a  sunny  nursery  with  birds  singing  in  the  win- 
dows, and  another  large  room  with  little  white  beds  in 
it,  and  everything  very  clean  and  fresh.  The  sight 
brought  back  his  own  old  grief,  and  he  went  out  of  the 
rooms  hurriedly,  and  shut  the  doors  on  their  reproach- 
ful emptiness. 

He  went  out  into  the  gardens  and  wandered  about 
over  the  soft  lawns  and  among  the  bright  June  flowers 
until  it  was  time  to  go  in  to  dinner.  He  went  out 
again  afterwards,  and  stayed  until  the  short  summer 
night  began  to  close  in  on  trees  and  grass  and  flowers, 
but  his  happiness  was  crossed  with  melancholy,  for  he 
had  no  one  with  whom  to  share  it.  So,  at  least,  he  told 
himself,  forgetting  that  he  was  to  be  married  in  a 
month's  time. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

MAB.GAEET 

HUGH  opened  his  eyes  at  dawn  the  next  morning.  A 
flood  of  happiness  came  over  him  and  he  realized  where 
he  was,  and  that  a  summer  day  in  the  midst  of  these 
lovely  surroundings  was  before  him,  to  spend  as  he 
liked,  and  many  summer  days  after  this  should  have 
run  its  course.  His  windows  were  wide  open  to  the 
east.  He  rose  and  looked  out  on  to  trees  and  lawns, 
now  shrouded  in  mysterious  twilight,  and  was  reminded 
of  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  when  he  and  Anne  had  so 
often  risen  with  the  birds,  and  steeped  themselves  in 
the  freshness  of  awakening  Nature.  Years  of  sedentary 
life  had  robbed  him  of  the  desire  to  leave  his  bed  sev- 
eral hours  before  the  rest  of  the  world  should  be  pre- 
paring to  rise,  and  he  relinquished  his  half-formed 
resolution  to  dress  and  go  into  the  garden,  and  lay, 
sometimes  asleep  and  sometimes  awake,  while  the  sun 
climbed  higher  into  the  sky. 

As  he  finished  his  breakfast  Gillett,  the  agent,  ar- 
rived, with  proposals  for  a  busy  morning.  He  wanted 
to  introduce  him  to  the  bailiff  and  the  head  keeper  and 
various  other  functionaries ;  to  show  him  what  was  be- 
ing done  as  to  this  and  that,  and  generally  to  initiate 
him  into  the  mysteries  of  the  management  of  a  large 
estate.  Hugh,  with  great  reluctance,  resigned  his  morn- 

222 


MARGARET  223 

ing,  and  was  presently  being  driven  from  one  place  to 
another  in  a  high  dogcart  behind  a  fast-trotting  horse, 
listening  to  all  sorts  of  information  which  did  not  in- 
terest him.  When  the  long  morning  was  over,  and  Gil- 
lett  was  beginning  to  make  suggestions  for  a  similar 
afternoon,  to  be  spent  in  inspecting  outlying  farms  and 
coverts,  Hugh  made  a  grasp  at  his  independence. 

"  There  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  all  this  by-and- 
by,"  he  said.  "  For  the  next  week,  at  least,  I  want  to 
hear  nothing  about  estate  management.  I  want  to  find 
my  way  about  the  place  by  myself  and  get  to  know  it." 

"  But  how  can  you  get  to  know  it,"  said  Gillett, 
"  unless  you  have  some  one  to  tell  you  everything?  You 
want  to  take  the  reins,  don't  you?  " 

"  No,  not  yet,"  answered  Hugh.  "  I  know  nothing 
of  all  the  things  we  have  been  talking  about  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  don't  know  that  I  care  very  much.  At  pres- 
ent the  house  and  the  gardens  and  the  country  are 
enough  for  me.  The  estate  can  wait." 

Gillett  went  away  with  a  shrug  of  his  broad  shoulders. 
The  country  to  him  meant  agriculture  and  sport;  and 
a  landowner  who  declined  to  take  up  his  responsibilities, 
but  preferred  to  idle  away  his  time  in  his  house  and 
garden,  was  much  like  a  man  put  in  charge  of  a  large 
business  undertaking  who  should  devote  himself  to  ad- 
miring the  convenience  of  his  offices  and  the  perfection 
of  his  stationery. 

Left  to  himself,  Hugh  breathed  again.  His  morn- 
ing's occupation  had  been  utterly  distasteful  to  him. 
He  had  felt  like  a  boy  compelled  to  sit  down  on  the 


224  MANY   JUNES 

first  day  of  his  emancipation  from  school  and  work  at 
a  holiday  task.  He  had  been  relieved  when  the  agent 
refused  his  invitation  to  lunch,  and  his  spirits  rose  as 
he  contemplated  his  afternoon's  freedom. 

During  his  morning's  drive  he  had  noticed,  some  way 
across  the  meadows,  about  a  mile  from  his  house,  a  pic- 
turesque mill,  the  lichened  roofs  of  which  could  be  seen 
across  the  fields  from  the  road,  through  the  trees  which 
surrounded  it.  Gillett,  jerking  an  elbow  in  its  direc- 
tion, had  said :  "  That's  your  Naboth's  vineyard,"  and 
had  told  him  the  story  of  an  old  recluse,  who  owned 
the  mill  and  a  few  acres  of  orchard  and  meadow,  in 
the  middle  of  Hugh's  property,  and  refused  to  sell,  or 
even  to  consider  proposals  for  a  sale. 

"  No  one  ever  sees  him,"  Gillett  had  said,  throwing 
out  his  information  in  a  series  of  jerky  sentences. 
"  Paston,  his  name  is.  He  makes  a  fair  living  out  of 
the  mill  and  his  orchards,  but  he  leaves  the  dealing  to 
his  man.  They  say  he  reads  a  lot,  and  knows  a  lot.  I 
don't  know  how  that  may  be.  He's  a  Roman  Catholic, 
or  said  to  be.  But  the  only  friend  he  has  is  old  Freel- 
ing,  the  parson  at  Swathling,  over  there."  He  pointed 
towards  a  church  tower  standing  on  a  slight  eminence 
some  four  or  five  miles  away.  "  He's  a  queer  old 
bachelor,  Freeling.  He's  bookish  too,  and  rich.  Pas- 
ton  has  a  granddaughter.  I  hear  she's  just  come  home 
from  France.  They  say  old  Freeling  has  paid  for  her 
education  at  a  convent  there.  They  say  he'll  marry 
her,  but  that's  probably  scandal.  He's  old  enough  to 
be  her  father.  When  Paston  dies  there  may  be  a  chance 


MARGARET  225 

of  buying.  You  ought  to  have  the  place,  of  course;  but 
it's  no  use  trying  as  long  as  he's  alive." 

Collecting  his  painting  materials,  Hugh  bethought 
him  of  the  old  timbered  mill  with  its  tall  poplars  and 
sliding  water-race,  and  made  his  way  along  the  banks 
of  the  stream  which  ran  through  his  fields  and  filled  the 
moat  that  surrounded  his  house.  It  wound  its  way,  in 
a  very  leisurely  fashion,  through  the  hayfields,  with 
many  twists  and  turns,  and  it  was  only  after  following 
its  course  for  over  half-an-hour  that  he  came  at  last 
to  the  old  mill.  The  sight  of  it,  on  this  still  after- 
noon of  high  summer,  was  enough  to  gladden  the  eyes 
of  an  artist.  It  stood  reflected  in  clear  water,  flanked 
by  great  trees,  and  surrounded  by  an  apple  orchard. 
The  wheel  was  silent,  but  underneath  the  bridge  by 
which  the  mill  was  approached  the  water  ran  with 
a  musical  ripple,  spreading  fanwise  into  the  stillness  of 
the  wide  pool.  White  pigeons  wheeled  in  the  air  and 
cooed  on  the  ridges  of  the  roof.  The  bees  droned 
among  the  clover.  From  some  distant  hayfield  came  the 
sound  of  a  scythe  being  sharpened.  The  water  mur- 
mured lazily.  The  place  seemed  to  lie  at  the  rery 
heart  of  summer. 

With  a  sigh  of  contentment  he  sat  down  under  the 
shade  of  a  great  chestnut-tree  and  began  his  drawing. 
Soon  he  had  sketched  in  his  picture  and  begun  to  use 
his  colours.  He  grew  absorbed  in  his  work,  and  thought 
he  was  painting  better  than  he  had  ever  done 
before. 

He  worked  for  half-an-hour,  and  during  that  time 


226  MANY  JUNES 

no  sign  of  human  life  about  the  old  mill  had  disturbed 
his  solitude.  But  presently  he  saw  a  girl  come  out  on 
to  the  staging  which  ran  alongside  the  mill-pool.  She 
unfastened  a  punt  that  lay  by  a  flight  of  shallow 
wooden  steps,  and  stepping  into  it  began  to  push  her- 
self down  the  stream  towards  him.  At  first  he  felt 
rather  annoyed  by  this  intrusion  on  his  solitude.  But, 
as  the  girl  came  nearer  to  him  across  the  sunlit  water, 
his  mild  feeling  of  irritation  gave  way  to  one  of  inter- 
est. Her  graceful  movements  pleased  his  eye,  for  she 
was  tall  and  lissom,  and  used  the  natural  swing  of  her 
body,  apparently  without  effort,  in  propelling  herself. 
Her  dress  was  blue,  and  she  wore  a  wide-brimmed  hat 
of  coarse  straw,  trimmed  with  cornflowers.  Her  hands, 
which  she  raised  above  her  head  at  each  plunge  of  the 
pole  into  the  water,  were  white  and  slender. 

So  much  could  be  seen  at  first.  As  she  came  nearer, 
Hugh  discovered  that  her  hair  was  brown  and  abundant, 
next  that  her  dress  was  of  cool  linen  and  fitted  her  slen- 
der figure  to  perfection,  then,  somehow,  that  her  eyes  as 
well  as  her  gown  were  blue,  and  finally  that  she  was 
beautiful,  but  very  young.  Her  figure  was  that  of  a 
woman,  but  she  had  the  fair  frank  gaze  of  a  child,  and 
a  child's  innocence  and  curiosity  looked  out  of  her  eyes 
as  she  caught  sight  of  him  sitting  under  the  tree,  and 
gazed  full  at  him,  with  the  merest  hint  of  confusion 
at  having  been  observed  when  she  had  thought  herself 
alone.  A  sudden  impulse  made  him  rise  and  take  a 
step  towards  the  water,  so  that  when  the  next  stroke  of 
the  pole  brought  her  opposite  to  him  it  looked  as  if  he 


MARGARET  227 

were  waiting  on  the  bank  for  her.  And  she,  as  if  she 
were  expecting  him  to  speak,  stopped  and  stood  look- 
ing up  at  him  out  of  wide  blue  eyes,  her  lips  a  little 
apart.  There  was  a  moment's  pause.  If  it  had  lasted  a 
fraction  of  a  second  longer  they  would  have  parted  in 
confusion  with  no  word  spoken.  But  Hugh  broke  the 
silence  just  in  time.  "  I  hope  there  is  no  objection  to 
my  sketching  from  here?  "  he  said  rather  lamely. 

"  Oh  no,  not  the  least,"  she  answered.  Her  voice 
was  musical  and  full-throated,  and  there  was  the  least 
little  suspicion  of  a  foreign  intonation.  But  her  words 
came  as  frankly  as  the  gaze  of  her  child's  eyes,  and  she 
looked  away  from  him  with  obvious  curiosity  to  the 
little  easel  that  he  had  set  up  under  the  shade  of  the 
chestnut. 

"Would  you  like  to  look  at  it?"  he  asked.  "It 
isn't  much — at  least,  not  yet." 

"  Oh  yes,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  and  guided  her 
punt  underneath  the  bank  where  he  was  standing.  He 
gave  her  his  hand  to  help  her  out  on  to  the  grass,  and 
presently  he  was  using  his  brush  again  while  she  was 
sitting  at  his  feet  talking  to  him  as  if  she  had  known 
him  all  her  life. 

She  told  him  of  the  years  she  had  spent  in  the 
French  convent  school,  in  an  old  Norman  town  of  nar- 
row streets,  stone  houses,  and  high-piled  red  roofs. 
There  had  been  a  few  other  English  girls  there,  but 
French  had  been  her  tongue  for  nine  or  ten  years,  and, 
as  she  told  him  the  story  of  her  childhood,  she  used 
French  phrases,  sometimes  hesitated  for  a  word,  and 


228  MANY   JUNES 

sometimes  used  a  wrong  one,  with  a  little  apologetic 
laugh  and  a  movement  of  her  hands. 

She  had  been  happy  with  the  nuns.  One  of  them 
had  made  a  favourite  of  her  and  had  gained  her  adora- 
tion. "  When  we  went  into  the  great  stone  kitchen,  all 
badigeonee,  you  know,  and  so  clean,  to  learn  to  cook, 
I  used  to  make  cakes  for  her.  She  loved  them.  She 
gave  me  some  little  pictures  and  a  medal.  They  are  my 
greatest  treasures.  Then  there  came  a  girl  from  her 
own  home  in  Brittany,  and  I  found  out  that  she  loved 
her  better  than  me.  I  was  miserable  for  a  long  time, 
and  furiously  jealous.  But,  after  a  time,  I  did  not  care 
any  longer,  and  when  Jeanette — that  was  the  other 
girl's  name — went  away  and  she  wanted  me  again,  I  did 
not  want  her  any  more."  She  laughed  at  herself. 
"  They  are  like  that,  the  nuns,"  she  said.  "  But  they 
were  dear  people  and  very  devout.  They  made  you 
want  to  be  good." 

She  had  never  come  home  during  her  schooldays. 
Sometimes  she  had  visited  the  homes  of  her  schoolfel- 
lows during  the  holidays,  sometimes  she  had  stayed  at 
the  convent,  and,  except  that  she  liked  a  change  some- 
times, that  had  been  almost  better,  for  the  nuns  had 
made  her  very  happy  in  the  holidays. 

But  during  her  long  exile  she  had  often  thought  of 
the  old  millhouse,  and  the  drone  of  the  waterwheel, 
and  the  dappled  shadows  on  the  orchard  grasses.  At 
first  she  had  been  terribly  homesick,  and  as  she  had  be- 
come more  at  home  in  the  convent  she  had  still,  at  inter- 
vals, longed  to  come  back  to  the  beautiful  English  coun- 


MARGARET  229 

try.  She  had  returned  only  a  month  ago,  and  had 
found  it  no  less  beautiful  and  peaceful  than  her  childish 
memories  had  painted  it. 

She  spoke  of  her  grandfather:  of  the  white  head 
bent  over  a  book  in  an  old  oaken  room,  while  the  clock 
ticked  solemnly  in  the  corner,  and  the  night  breezes 
stirred  the  curtains  and  the  flowers  in  the  casement 
windows.  She  told  him  of  the  other  kind  old  man  who, 
in  some  way  she  did  not  quite  understand,  had  a  claim 
on  her  reverence  and  affection,  a  debt  which  she  found 
it  very  easy  to  pay.  She  described  the  long  happy 
days  of  her  present  life,  from  the  time  of  her  rising 
in  the  early  morning  to  her  rest  in  the  sweet  silence  of 
the  summer  night.  She  had  no  duties  to  perform  in  her 
grandfather's  house,  but  was  content  to  live  in  simple 
enjoyment  of  her  surroundings  in  the  unbroken  June 
weather. 

She  talked  like  a  happy  child  to  an  older  friend, 
but  interwoven  with  her  childish  confidences  ran  the 
thread  of  maturer  thoughts.  Her  innocent  soul  was 
full  of  the  love  of  Nature  and  the  love  of  mankind. 
She  was  a  revelation  to  Hugh.  He  had  never  imagined 
that  he  could  find  his  own  secret  delights  so  enchant- 
ingly  reflected  in  the  mind  of  another. 

But  in  answer  to  all  that  she  revealed  of  herself,  he 
told  her  nothing,  not  even  his  name. 

He  had  long  since  finished  his  drawing,  and  was 
spoiling  it  by  additional  touches,  so  that  he  might 
lislen  to  her  as  long  as  she  pleased  to  talk  to  him.  The 
sun  touched  the  tops  of  one  of  the  poplar  spires.  She 


230  MANY  JUNES 

sprang  to  her  feet  and  shook  out  her  skirt  with  a  ges- 
ture purely  feminine.  "  I  have  talked  and  talked,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  The  nuns  always  told  me 
that  my  tongue  ran  away  with  me.  And  you  have  not 
talked  at  all,  but  have  done  nothing  but  listen  to  me." 

"  I  can't  talk  while  I  am  painting,"  replied  Hugh, 
in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  which  concealed  a  ferment  of 
feeling.  "  But  it  helps  me  to  listen.  I  have  finished 
much  more  quickly  than  I  should  have  done  if  you  had 
not  come  here  to  keep  me  company." 

She  looked  at  his  picture  of  the  scene  she  loved  so 
well.  "  I  think  it  is  beautiful,"  she  said.  "  How  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  it  to  remind  me,  all  the  long 
years  I  was  in  France ! " 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  it  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

Her  face  lit  up  with  pleasure.  **  Oh !  may  I  ?  "  she 
cried.  "  It  is  beautiful.  My  grandfather  will  admire 
it  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  Don't  show  it  to  him,"  said  Hugh,  his  face  hidden 
from  her  as  he  cut  the  paper  off  the  board.  "  I  will 
paint  you  a  much  better  one." 

"  I  don't  think  you  could,"  she  said,  with  another 
little  clear  full-throated  laugh.  "  But  you  shall  try. 
And  may  I  come  and  watch  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  may,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  I  love  watching  people  paint,"  she  said.  "  It  has 
been  very  interesting.  And  you  are  sure  I  have  not 
worried  you  with  my  chatter?  Somehow,  I  felt  in- 
clined to  talk  to  you,  and  you  have  listened  very  pa- 
tiently." Again  the  quick  thrushlike  trill  of  laughter, 


MARGARET  231 

which  quickened  his  pulse  every  time  he  listened  to  it. 
"  You  shall  tell  me  about  yourself  the  next  time,  and 
it  will  be  my  turn  to  listen.  You  have  rather  a  sad 
face." 

There  was  a  change  in  her  voice.  She  stood  with 
her  hat  in  her  hand  before  her,  the  sun  shining  on  the 
warm  undulations  of  her  hair,  and  looked  into  his  face. 
"  I  have  no  reason  to  be  sad  now,"  he  said,  return- 
ing her  gaze.  "  I  shall  be  here  tomorrow  morning,  at 
ten  o'clock.  Will  you  be  here  too?  " 

There  was  a  quiver  of  her  long  eyelashes,  as  if 
something  of  that  which  lay  behind  his  steadfast  gaze 
had  stirred  her  unawakened  soul  and  troubled  it  a  little. 
"  Yes,  I  will  come,"  she  said,  looking  away  from  him. 

"  Then  good-bye,"  he  said,  and  turned  away,  not 
trusting  himself  to  take  her  hand. 

Hugh  walked  hom;e  along  the  riverside  with  the  step 
of  a  young  man.  The  lines  of  his  grave  face  were 
softened,  his  eyes  were  humid,  his  mouth  tender.  All 
his  mind  was  irradiated.  The  river  ran  for  him  and 
sang  a  tune;  the  light  airs  that  fanned  him  whispered 
happy  secrets,  the  trees  and  the  grass  and  the  meadow 
flowers  were  painted  in  colours  of  incredible  brightness. 
When  he  came  to  his  own  park,  and  saw  across  ferny 
glades  and  hollows  the  long  western  front  of  his  old 
house,  its  mellow  stone  and  brick  work  warmed  by  the 
sun,  its  windows  shining,  it  became  suddenly  more  than 
a  rich  palace  of  old  treasure.  It  welcomed  him  as  a 
home,  where  for  centuries  men  had  lived  and  loved  and 
died.  Its  beauty  and  the  joy  of  possession  merged 


232  MANY  JUNES 

themselves    into    the    current    of    his    happiness,    and 
heightened  it. 

As  he  wandered  about  the  rooms  and  galleries  of  the 
house,  and  over  the  lawns  of  the  garden,  among  flow- 
ers and  trees  and  fountains,  in  a  blissful  solitude ;  as  he 
dressed  and  dined,  waited  upon  by  silent  servants,  but 
anxious  to  get  rid  of  them,  he  was  living  again  in  the 
hours  of  the  afternoon,  longing  for  the  slow  light  to 
fade  and  bring  him  to  the  night,  and  so  to  another  day 
of  happiness.  His  past  life  had  slipped  away  from  him, 
and  into  the  future  he  looked  no  farther  forward  than 
the  morrow.  He  moved  in  a  sort  of  trance.  Little 
things  were  real  to  him,  but  not  big  ones.  He  could 
see  the  insects  dancing  in  the  evening  sunlight,  the 
colours  of  the  grass  and  flowers;  he  could  hear  the 
plash  of  the  fountains  in  their  lilied  pools,  the  light 
rustle  of  the  tree  tops;  but  his  eyes  were  blind  to  the 
ties  that  bound  him,  and  his  ears  deaf  to  the  call  of 
new  duties. 

The  aext  morning  he  rose  early,  and  the  hours  west 
slowlj  until  he  could  go  again  to  the  riverside  by  the 
mill.  Again  he  settled  himself  by  the  pool  under  the 
great  chestnut.  But  his  eyes  now  continually  sought 
the  staging  which  ran  along  the  side  of  the  house  over 
the  water.  His  heart  leapt  as  he  saw  the  slim  blue- 
clad  figure  appear.  She  waved  her  hand  to  him,  un- 
fastened the  punt  and  stepped  into  it.  He  looked  at 
her  with  intense  eager  gaze  as  she  poled  herself  over 
the  water  towards  him,  but  his  eyes  were  no  more  than 
friendly  as  they  rested  on  her  for  a  moment  while  he 


MARGARET  283 

helped  her  to  land,  and  when  he  had  tied  up  the  punt, 
and  stood  upright  again  before  her,  his  control  over 
himself  was  complete.  At  all  costs  he  must  avoid 
frightening  her  by  a  hint  of  his  quick-grown  passion. 

"  I  am  going  to  paint  you  a  bigger  and  more  care- 
ful picture,"  he  said,  and  she  expressed  her  delight, 
standing  at  his  shoulder. 

"  I  ought  to  have  brought  some  work,"  she  said,  as 
she  sank  down  on  the  grass  at  his  side.  "  I  am  very 
idle;  but  I  promised  myself  a  holiday  as  long  as  this 
lovely  weather  lasted,  and  this  is  the  way  I  like  to 
spend  it. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  before  he  could  reply, 
"  you  have  never  told  me  your  name,  or  where  you 
come  from,  or  where  you  are  staying;  and  I  have  told 
you  everything  about  myself." 

"  You  have  not  told  me  your  name." 

She  laughed  lightly.  "Didn't  I?"  she  said,  « I 
thought  I  had  told  you  everything  there  was  to  tell. 
My  name  is  Margaret — Margaret  Paston.  What  is 
yours  ?  " 

There  was  the  least  little  pause.  Hugh  looked  up 
from  his  board,  looked  down  again,  and  drew  a  line. 
"  My  name  is  Hugh  Lelacheur,"  he  said. 

She  stared  up  at  him  for  a  moment,  amd  her  face 
changed.  "  Are  you  Sir  Hugh  Lelacheur  »f  Wyse 
Hall?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  his  eyes  on  his  drawing. 

She  was  silent  for  a  space.  He  did  not  dare  to  look 
at  her.  But  when  the  silence  became  oppressive  he 


234     ./  MANY   JUNES 

stole  a  glance  aside.  She  was  sitting  half  turned 
towards  him,  resting  on  one  hand,  while  the  other  lay 
along  the  folds  of  her  skirt  and  held  her  straw  flower- 
trimmed  hat.  Her  head  was  bent.  The  sunlight  filter- 
ing through  leaves  played  on  the  gold  of  her  hair.  He 
could  see  her  lowered  lashes  and  a  flushed  cheek.  She 
looked  up  at  him  steadily.  "  If  I  had  known  that,"  she 
said,  "  I  should  not  have  talked  to  you  as  I  did  yes- 
terday." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  asked  lamely. 

She  looked  down  again.  "  I  thought  you  were  just 
an  artist,"  she  said.  "  One  talks  to  artists.  I  used  to 
stay  in  Brittany  with  a  girl  from  the  convent.  Her 
father  was  an  artist — and  all  their  friends.  That  was 
why  I  was  so  pleased  to  see  you  yesterday.  I  thought 
you  were  like  that." 

«  And  wasn't  I  like  that?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  again.  "  Yes,  you  were," 
she  said.  "  That  is  why  we  got  on  together.  But  you 
were  keeping  something  back  from  me  all  the  time. 
That  wasn't  quite  fair,  was  it?  " 

"  What  you  say  I  was  keeping  back  did  not  seem 
to  me  of  much  importance  yesterday,"  he  said ;  "  you 
must  remember  I  have  only  been  Sir  Hugh  Lelacheur  of 
Wyse  Hall  for  a  very  short  time.  When  I  have  had 
the  chance,  I  have  tried  to  be  an  artist  all  my 
life." 

"  And  when  I  first  saw  you,  you  were  painting,  and 
had  forgotten — all  the  rest?" 

"  I  forgot  it  all  the  afternoon." 


MARGARET  235 

She  looked  down  again  and  seemed  to  be  turning  this 
over  in  her  mind,  while  he  went  on  drawing. 

Presently,  she  gave  a  little  cry  and  he  looked  down 
at  her,  startled. 

"  It  was  dreadful,"  she  said,  "  the  ship  going  down  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  and  the  poor  little  children — 
oh !  "  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  You  think  that  I  ought  not  to  be  happy  ?  "  he  said 
quickly.  **  I  see  it  all  sometimes,  as  you  do.  But  I 
never  knew  my  cousins.  I  never  saw  any  of  them." 

She  looked  at  him  with  some  curiosity.  He  laid  down 
his  pencil.  "  Shall  I  tell  you  about  myself?  "  he  asked. 
"  I  have  lost  so  much  in  life,  and  I  have  been  so  much 
alone,  that  you  won't  think  it  strange  that  I  am  en- 
joying the  good  fortune  that  has  come  to  me  if  I  tell 
you  everything." 

"  I  told  you  everything  about  myself  yesterday,"  she 
said. 

"  You  told  me  because  we  had  become  friends  at 
once,  didn't  you?  One  can  tell  things  to  a  friend  that 
one  keeps  for  the  most  part  to  one's  self." 

"  Yes ;  tell  me,"  she  said. 

He  told  her,  shortly,  of  his  childhood,  of  his  school- 
days culminating  in  his  rejection  for  the  navy,  of  his 
sojourn  in  France  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Williams.  The 
story  became  fuller  when  he  came  to  Foyle  and  Anne, 
and  she  began  to  ask  him  questions  and  to  show  her 
sympathy.  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes  when  he  de- 
scribed his  lonely  life  in  London,  with  his  father  dead 
and  Anne  on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  she  uttered 


236  MANY  JUNES 

a  cry  of  pain  when  he  told  her  of  little  Anne's  death. 

He  had  spoken  simply  and  without  seeking  effect, 
but  he  had  won  her.  Her  sudden  realization  of  him  as 
the  rich  man  at  whose  gates  her  grandfather  lived  im 
humble  independence  was  overcome  by  her  knowledge  of 
him  as  a  friend,  whose  sadness  she  could  soothe  by  her 
pity.  He  had  revealed  himself  to  her  as  he  had  revealed 
himself  to  no  one  since  his  boyhood  and  Anne's  mar- 
riage. He  had  told  her  more  of  himself  in  half-an-hour 
than  he  had  told  Mabilia  in  eight  months. 

But  he  told  her  nothing  of  Mabilia  or  of  his  engage- 
ment. 

They  were  together  for  the  whole  morning,  and  they 
parted  reluctantly.  When  they  met  again  in  the  after- 
noon, little  more  than  an  hour  afterwards,  their  in- 
timacy was  already  so  close  that  they  hurried  towards 
each  other,  and  the  talk  began  again  where  it  had  ended, 
without  any  interval  of  restraint.  The  shadow  of  the 
poplars  drew  out  across  the  water  and  touched  then 
where  they  sat  before  they  parted. 

They  stood  facing  one  another,  and  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes.  Hers  were  frank  and  kind;  but  he 
could  not  keep  the  yearning  out  of  his. 

"  Will  you  come  again  tomorrow  morning? "  he 
asked,  his  voice  slightly  tremulous. 

The  question,  answered  with  frank  pleasure  the  day 
before,  took  on  such  new  and  immense  significance  from 
the  tone  and  the  look  that  she  was  instantly  confused 
and  frightened,  turned  her  head  away,  and  would  have 
flown. 


MARGARET  237 

He  seized  her  hands.  "  Margaret,"  he  cried,  "  you 
aha'n't  go  until  you  promise  me.  I  have  been  waiting 
all  my  life  for  you.  I'm  not  going  to  lose  you  now. 
I  can't  pretend  any  more.  I  love  you  better  than  any- 
thing in  the  world." 

He  poured  out  burning  words  and  drew  her  to  him. 
She  trembled,  and  made  a  movement  as  if  to  escape,  but 
he  held  her  fast. 

She  lifted  up  her  face  to  his.  "  Oh!  I  don't  know," 
she  cried,  "  I  don't  know.  Let  me  go  now." 

"  No ;  not  till  you  tell  me  you  love  me.  I  love  you 
so  much  that  you  must — a  little — dearest  child !  " 

She  gazed  at  him  as  if  fascinated,  and  her  face  began 
to  change,  to  lose  its  frightened  look,  to  become  softer. 

He  saw  the  change  the  moment  its  shadow  crept 
over  her  eyes.  He  uttered  a  little  cry  of  joy,  and 
kissed  her.  She  lay  still  in  his  arms,  and  he  held  her 
closely  to  him. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

THE    DREAM 

THE  next  morning  they  met  as  lovers,  trembling  and 
flushed  with  divine  happiness.  Directly  he  came  to  the 
bank  of  the  pool  he  saw  the  flutter  of  her  blue  dress 
round  the  corner  of  the  millhouse,  and  she  came  straight 
to  him  across  the  water.  As  she  came  gliding  towards 
him  his  heart  went  through  alternations  of  hope  and 
fear.  Was  she  coming  to  him  to  renew  the  rapture  of 
the  evening  before,  or  had  she  bethought  herself,  and 
would  he  have  to  struggle  against  reserve  and  maidenly 
shrinking  for  possession  of  her?  One  look  from  her 
eyes  when  she  came  near  enough  for  him  to  read  her 
face  put  to  flight  the  shadow  of  fear.  They  held  timid- 
ity, but  it  only  coloured  the  innocence  of  her  joy.  Her 
soul  was  awakened  and  looked  out  of  clear  windows, 
unashamed.  He  helped  her  to  land,  and  she  came  to 
his  arms  like  a  dove  to  its  nest. 

"  I  thought  the  hours  would  never  pass,"  he  said ;  and 
she :  "  I  have  never  been  so  happy." 

They  met,  morning  and  afternoon,  for  many  days. 
.The  sky  was  blue,  and  soft  breezes  rustled  the  young 
leaves  of  the  poplars,  and  sent  ripples  over  the  spring- 
ing corn.  They  were  together  in  the  orchard,  in  the 
flowery  meadows,  on  the  banks  of  the  stream,  in  the 
June  woodlands,  musical  with  bird  notes,  carpeted  with 

238 


THE   DREAM  239 

wild  hyacinths  and  white  starlike  anemones.  To  Hugh, 
the  peace  of  the  quiet  country  was  like  water  in  the 
desert  of  a  disappointed  life;  and  his  passion  for  the 
girl  who  came  out  of  the  heart  of  it  to  bear  him  com- 
pany through  long  happy  days  and  to  leave  her  image 
in  his  brain  through  blissful  nights,  burnt  like  flame. 
The  years  slipped  from  him  and  he  was  young  again, 
as  young  in  spirit  as  she  was  in  years,  young  and  happy 
as  he  had  been  in  the  old  days  at  Foyle,  now  far  distant. 

So  far  as  he  knew  there  were  no  witnesses  to  their 
meetings.  But  he  was  so  taken  out  of  himself  by  the 
fierce  delight  that  had  come  into  his  life  that  he  would 
not  have  cared  if  all  the  world  had  been  aware  of 
them. 

His  servants  threw  curious  looks  at  him  as  he  came 
into  the  house  for  meals,  and  left  it  again  immediately 
afterwards.  More  than  once  his  agent  tried  to  inter- 
view him,  but  was  impatiently  dismissed.  He  had  the 
presence  of  mind  to  make  his  painting  an  excuse  for  his 
desire  for  an  unhampered  solitude,  but  it  would  have 
been  plain  to  see,  if  he  had  eyes  to  see  it,  that  his  de- 
pendants regarded  him  as  rather  more  than  eccentric. 
His  correspondence  accumulated  and  was  untouched. 
Nothing  was  done  that  he  had  come  down  to  do.  Noth- 
ing was  done  at  all. 

Then,  one  afternoon,  it  seemed  to  him  that  out  of 
the  shadows  of  life  he  saw  his  servant  coming  towards 
him  to  hand  him  a  telegram.  He  waved  him  away,  but 
the  old  man  met  him  with  resolution,  insisting  that  there 
was  an  answer,  and  that  the  messenger  was  waiting. 


240  MANY  JUNES 

The  telegram  was  a  long  one,  from  Mrs.  Churttra,  al- 
luding to  letters  unanswered,  asking  if  he  were  fll,  and 
ending  with  the  announcement  that  she  should  come 
to  Wyse  Hall  the  next  day  if  she  did  not  hear  from 
him. 

As  he  stood  staring  at  the  sheets  of  flimsy  pink  paper 
part  of  the  dream  mist  cleared  away  from  his  brain. 
He  saw  that  he  must  act,  and  his  first  impulse  was  to 
write  a  letter,  heralded  by  a  telegram,  which  should  rid 
him  of  the  Churtons  for  ever.  He  sent  the  telegram. 
He  was  weD,  and  they  would  receive  a  letter  from  him 
the  next  morning.  Then  he  took  up  his  painting  ma- 
terials and  left  the  house. 

As  he  went  across  the  deserted  meadows  towards  the 
mill,  by  a  route  which  his  lover's  impatience  had  long 
since  substituted  for  the  longer  one  by  the  river  bank, 
his  brain  cleared  further.  He  would  still  get  rid  of 
his  entanglement;  there  was  no  question  about  that. 
But  he  must  do  it  diplomatically,  for  the  sake  of  the 
girl  whom  he  loved.  No  gossip  must  smirch  her  when  he 
had  made  her  his  own.  A  new  thrill  quickened  his  foot- 
steps. Their  love  had  burnt  to  a  blaze  with  no  looking 
forward,  no  foreboding  to  damp  its  flame.  They  had 
lived  entirely  in  the  present,  and  never  looked  into  the 
future,  except  at  parting,  and  then  only  to  the  next 
morning,  that  should  bring  them  together  again.  Now, 
forced  to  look  forward,  he  saw  only  the  new  and  strange 
happiness  of  spending  his  life  with  her.  He  would  tell 
her  all  that  her  love  had  swept  away  from  his  mind. 
She  would  find  one  more  reason  for  her  sweet  pity  in 


THE    DREAM 

the  life  that  was  behind  him,  and  she  would  crown  his 
happiness  by  promising  to  become  his  bride. 

She  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  cool  recesses  of  the 
wood.  She  had  never  hitherto  been  before  him  at  the 
trysting  place.  Her  greeting  told  him  that  it  was  only 
another  instance  of  her  love  for  him?  which  was  as  deep 
as  his,  and  as  impatient.  He  held  her  in  a  long  em- 
brace, looking  into  the  depths  of  her  trusting  eyes. 

"  Will  you  come  and  be  with  me  always  ?  "  he  asked 
her. 

She  smiled  up  at  him.  "  Now  is  always,  when  I  am 
with  you,"  she  said.  "  But  you  have  something  to  tell 
me.  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes." 

"  I  could  not  keep  anything  from  you  if  I  would," 
he  replied.  "  You  would  mark  every  shadow ;  but 
there  will  be  no  shadows  in  life  when  we  are  always 
together." 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  "  what  is  troubling  you." 

"  Promise  first  to  be  my  wife,  and  I  will  tell  you 
everything." 

A  shadow  passed  over  her  own  face,  and  her  eyes 
fell.  "  There  is  some  trouble,"  she  said,  and  looked 
up  at  him  again  pleadingly ;  "  we  have  been  too  happy. 
Today  the  house  seemed  cold,  and  I  came  out  into  the 
sunlight  to  meet  you.  Tell  me,  dearest,  while  you  hold 
me  in  your  arms." 

He  told  her  baldly.  He  had  been  engaged  to  another 
woman,  and  before  they  could  be  happy  together  for 
ever  he  must  rid  himself  of  the  tie. 

She  shrank  from  him  as  if  he  had  struck  her.     Her 


242  MANY   JUNES 

face  went  white,  and  she  covered  it  with  her  hands. 
"  Oh !  why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  ?  "  she  moaned. 

He  took  possession  of  her  hands,  almost  roughly. 
"  What  does  it  matter?  "  he  said.  "  I  have  never  given 
her  a  thought  since  I  met  you.  She  was  never  any- 
thing to  me.  Now  she  is  less  than  nothing." 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said.  "  How  can  you  say 
she  is  nothing  to  you  when  you  are  going  to  marry 
her?  Oh!  how  could  you  do  such  a  thing?  " 

Her  knees  were  trembling.  She  sank  down  on  to  the 
grass,  and  he  threw  himself  down  beside  her.  "  How 
could  you  ask  her  to  marry  you  if  you  did  not  love 
her?" 

"  Listen,"  he  said.  "  You  know  what  my  life  has 
been.  You  know  that  after  all  I  have  lost  I  could 
never  expect  love  would  come  into  it.  If  I  had  not  met 
you  I  should  never  have  known  what  love  was.  You 
understand  that,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  I  was  waiting  for  you." 

"  We  were  friends,  she  and  I — hardly  perhaps  even 
that.  But  I  had  got  into  the  way  of  going  to  the  house 
where  she  and  her  mother  lived.  After  a  time  I  came 
to  understand  that  I  was  expected  to  ask  her  to  marry 
me.  I  didn't  care  much  what  became  of  me.  I  won't 
say  anything  against  her,  but  she  was  not  quite  what  I 
thought  her.  I  shouldn't  have  asked  her  if  I  had  known 
her  better.  I  was  sorry  I  had  done  so.  But  I  was 
prepared  to  go  through  with  it." 

"  Ah !  how  could  you  ?  "  she  said  again.  "  And  you 
loved  her  no  better  than  that!" 


THE   DREAM  243 

t(  I  never  loved  her  at  all.  There  was  never  a  spark 
of  love  for  her.  How  could  there  be  when  it  is  you  I 
love?  " 

"  I  can  understand  what  you  mean  by  that,"  she 
said.  "  I  thought  we  were  so  close  together  that  I 
could  understand  all  your  thoughts.  But  to  ask  some 
one  to  marry  you  for  no  better  reason  than  that  she 
expected  it  of  you!  Why  did  she  expect  it  of  you?  " 

He  looked  at  her  tenderly.  "  My  darling,"  he  said, 
"  you  don't  know  the  world,  thank  God !  She  is  not  a 
girl;  she  is  not  much  younger  than  I  am.  There  are 
women,  not  bad  women — she  is  not  that — who  would 
rather  have  a  loveless  marriage  than  none  at  all." 

"  Yes ;  but  you !    Are  men  like  that  too  ?  " 

"  No.  But  there  are  other  things  a  man  may  desire 
in  marriage.  You  know  how  lonely  my  life  has  been. 
You  can  understand  what  I  thought  marriage  might 
give  me." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  softly,  and  lifted  her  hand  to  his 
dark  head.  "  I  can  understand  that." 

"  Then  you  absolve  me.  I  couldn't  have  done  it  if 
I  had  known  what  I  know  of  love  now.  It  would  have 
seemed  like  sacrilege.  But  I  was  blind  then.  It  was 
the  only  thing  in  my  life  that  I  haven't  told  you  of. 
There  is  nothing  more  between  us,  now." 

His  relief  at  the  touch  of  her  hand  had  been  un- 
bounded. Horrible  depths  of  misunderstanding  and 
separation  had  seemed  to  reveal  themselves.  But  her 
caress  had  closed  them.  He  would  have  drawn  her  to 
him  again.  But  she  resisted,  looking  at  him  piteously. 


244  MANY  JUNES 

u  Oh,  why  did  you  do  it?  "  she  said,  once  again.  "  There 
is  that  between  us.  It  will  put  an  end  to  our  love." 

"Put  an  end  to  our  love?"  he  cried,  horrified. 
"How  can  it  do  that?  We  are  one,  already.  Nothing 
can  part  us." 

She  was  all  tenderness  again.  "  I  shall  love  you  al- 
ways," she  said,  gazing  into  his  eyes.  "  And  you  will 
love  me.  I  know  that.  But  we  cannot  come  together 
any  more." 

Behind  her  weakness  there  was  strength.  He  caught 
a  glimpse  of  it  through  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  again 
the  chasm  of  separation  yawned  before  him. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  again,  imprisoning  her  hands  in 
his.  "  I  did  wrong  to  engage  myself  to  this  woman. 
But  it  would  be  a  thousand  times  more  wrong  to  go  back 
to  her  now,  and  leave  you.  I  have  claimed  you,  and 
you  have  given  yourself  to  me.  I  belong  to  you,  every- 
thing that  I  am,  and  you  belong  to  me.  You  shall  be 
my  wife.  I  will  take  you.  It  is  my  right." 

She  looked  at  him  long  and  earnestly.  "  I  do  belong 
to  you,"  she  said.  "  I  love  you  with  every  part  of  me. 
Nothing  can  take  that  away  from  me.  But  you  must 
go  back  to  her.  No ;  listen  to  me  now,  my  dearest.  We 
have  been  living  in  a  dream.  Somehow  I  think  I  knew 
all  along  that  it  could  not  last.  But  we  never  thought 
of  the  future,  did  we?  And  even  if  I  had  not  known 
of  this,  how  could  I  have  married  you?  We  belong  to 
different  worlds." 

He  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "  That  is  not  like 
you."  he  said.  "  Supposing  it  had  been  I  who  had 


THE   DREAM  245 

said  it !  Even  if  I  had  been  all  my  life  what  I  am  now, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  you  would  still  be  high  above 
me;  except  that  our  love  would  have  brought  us  to- 
gether. And  to  compare  you  with  that  other !  Your 
mind  is  as  beautiful  as  your  body.  You  have  no 
thoughts  that  are  not  noble.  You  are  a  fitting  mate 
for  the  highest." 

"  You  must  think  of  me  like  that,"  she  said  tenderly, 
"  but  you  must  say  good-bye  to  me.  Don't  make  me 
weak.  It  will  be  hard  enough  to  bear.  But  you  must 
keep  your  promise.  You  would  not  be  the  man  I  love 
if  you  broke  it." 

For  an  hour  he  fought  with  her,  trying  to  break 
her  resolution.  Many  times  she  seemed  on  the  point  of 
giving  way,  and  many  times  she  wept  in  his  arms  and 
he  thought  he  held  her  for  ever.  But  her  purpose  re- 
mained through  all  her  vacillations.  He  must  keep 
faith.  She  would  not  be  his  even  if  he  broke  it. 

At  last  there  came  a  pause  in  his  pleading.  He 
sat  dumbly,  rage  against  Fate  and  against  her  shaking 
him.  He  knew  he  had  nothing  more  to  say,  and  flung 
a  taunt  at  her.  "  Your  love  is  worth  nothing,"  he 
said. 

There  was  no  answer  but  her  sobbing. 

He  flung  himself  at  her  feet.  "  No ;  it  is  the  greatest 
treasure  I  have  ever  had,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  don't  send  me 
away.  Only  you  can  save  me." 

It  was  the  cry  of  weakness  and  terror  that  pierces 
the  soul.  She  threw  her  arms  round  him  and  kissed 
him,  and  strength  rose  within  her,  though  her  heart  was 


24,6  MANY   JUNES 

riven.  "  My  dearest,"  she  said,  "  the  dream  is  over. 
Now  we  must  face  the  world  and  be  brave.  Neither 
of  us  will  ever  forget.  You  will  be  good  to  her,  won't 
you?  Perhaps  she  loves  you  too ;  but  not  as  much  as  I 
do.  I  shall  pray  for  your  happiness.  Perhaps  some 
day  I  shall  see  your  children.  I  know  they  will  com- 
fort you.  Oh,  my  darling !  good-bye !  " 

He  clung  to  her  passionately,  as  if  by  holding  her 
body  he  could  hold  her  soul.  She  lay  still  in  his  arms 
till  his  grasp  relaxed.  Then  she  rose  to  her  feet. 
"  Good-bye,"  she  said  again,  smiling,  and  turned  and 
went  away  from  him  through  the  trees,  leaving  him 
beaten,  and,  once  more,  empty  of  hope. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE    AWAKENING 

HUGH  went  back  to  his  house  after  a  while.  His  dream 
was  over,  but  he  was  hardly  yet  awake.  He  could  not 
grasp  what  had  happened  to  him.  It  was  impossible  to 
think  that  he  would  see  her  no  more,  impossible  that  he 
should  have  taken  his  dismissal,  unable  to  impose  his 
will  upon  hers. 

He  went  up  into  the  old  library,  and  sat  there  for 
hours,  while  the  square  of  sunshine  thrown  by  the  long 
row  of  windows  crept  along  the  floor  and  threw  latticed 
patterns  and  a  stain  of  colour  on  the  polished  oak. 

He  had  not  accepted  defeat.  He  laughed  at  the  idea. 
He  would  win  her  yet.  He  would  force  her  to  see  that 
a  love  such  as  theirs  swept  away  all  petty  conventions. 
Was  it  not  allowable  for  a  man  to  withdraw  from  an 
engagement  such  as  his,  when  so  much  was  at  stake? 
It  was  done  every  day.  It  had  only  been,  as  he  had 
said,  because  he  had  not  cared  much  what  became  of 
him,  that  he  had  not  claimed  his  release  weeks  before, 
when  he  had  found  out  the  meanness  of  Mabilia's  am- 
bitions, when  he  had  been  disappointed  of  the  very  little 
he  had  hoped  from  her.  Oh,  God!  Why  had  he  not 
done  so? 

"  You  would  not  be  the  man  I  love  if  you  did  not 
keep  your  promise."  The  words,  and  the  tone  in  which 

247 


248  MANY   JUNES 

they  had  been  uttered,  came  to  him.  He  must  set  him- 
self to  see  with  her  eyes,  that  he  might  find  the  point  at 
which  to  assail  her ;  for  he  knew,  at  least,  that  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  prayers  and  arguments  of  the  afternoon 
would  not  avail  him. 

He  melted  at  the  thought  of  her  love  for  him.  It 
was  of  the  essence  of  a  great  passion:  it  would  con- 
done weakness,  but  not  dishonour.  Dishonour  would 
destroy  it.  The  loved  one  must  be  worshipped  as  noble ; 
ignoble  he  could  be  worshipped  no  longer,  and,  if  loved 
at  all,  only  on  a  lower  and  reconstituted  plane ;  in  that 
case  love  would  no  longer  be  the  perfect  flower,  but  a 
weed  that  could  never  grow  in  the  soil  of  such  a  nature 
as  hers. 

Yes;  but  if  there  was  no  dishonour?  That  was 
what  he  must  prove,  if  he  could  still  hope  to  win 
her. 

Painfully,  and  with  inward  shrinking,  he  put  himself 
into  her  place.  He  loved  her  with  a  love  as  high  as  hers. 
He  loved  her  because  she  was  noble  and  sweet  and  good. 
If  he  could  imagine  her  to  have  done  something,  or  to 
be  contemplating  something,  dishonourable,  could  he 
love  her  so  well?  It  was  impossible  to  imagine  such  a 
thing.  It  would  not  be  she,  but  some  one  else;  and  it 
was  she  whom  he  loved. 

Then  that  was  the  answer. 

Ah!  but  that  was  agreed.  If  it  were  something 
dishonourable  on  his  part  that  stood  between  them, 
she  would  be  right.  He  must  take  a  lower  place  in 
her  eyes.  No,  worse  than  that.  The  man  she  had 


THE   AWAKENING  249 

loved  would  be  dead,  and  he,  a  stranger,  would  be  stand- 
ing before  her  in  his  image. 

Again  he  must  put  himself  in  her  place.  If  she  had 
confessed  to  him  what  he  had  confessed  to  her?  Sup- 
pose she  had  bound  herself  to  a  loveless  marriage ;  had 
taken  his  love  and  gloried  in  it,  and  said  nothing  about 
that  tie,  until  it  was  forced  upon  her;  then  had  made 
light  of  it  and  said  that  their  love  must  be  her  excuse 
for  breaking  it ! 

The  sweat  broke  out  upon  his  forehead  as  he  forced 
himself  to  put  the  case.  Could  he  really  seem  to  her 
like  that? 

He  looked  at  it  in  every  way,  striving  to  be  honest 
and  impartial.  There  was  a  difference.  A  young  girl 
could  not  in  the  natural  circumstances  of  her  life 
have  acted  in  just  that  way,  and  been  what  this  girl 
was. 

But  there  might  be  parallel  circumstances.  A  prom- 
ise might  have  been  drawn  from  her,  perhaps  by  her 
parents,  to  marry  a  man  she  had  liked  but  did  not  love, 
not  at  once,  but  at  some  future  time,  so  that  it  did 
not  weigh  on  her  mind,  she  not  knowing  in  her  inno- 
cence that  love  might  come  and  make  her  promise  as 
heavy  as  lead.  Well,  surely  in  that  case  no  nice  sense 
of  honour  could  bind  her.  If  only  he  had  thought  of 
putting  that  to  her ! 

Ah !  but  it  was  not  an  exact  parallel.  He  had  taken 
the  initiative.  There  had  been  no  compulsion  on  him. 
He  had  lightly  plighted  his  troth  and  proposed  as 
lightly  to  escape  from  it.  "  How  could  you  do  such  a 


250  MANY   JUNES 

thing?  "  It  was  the  treachery  against  all  that  she  held 
sacred  in  love  that  had  hurt  her,  the  deliberate  invita- 
tion to  a  union  without  any  love  at  all  to  sanctify  it. 
If  he  could  act  like  that,  then  the  very  love  he  had  given 
her  was  suspect.  He  was  not  what  she  had  thought 
him. 

And  the  conviction  now  slowly  grew  upon  him  that 
the  mischief  was  already  done,  that  the  knell  of  his 
hopes  had  been  struck  long  before  he  had  begun  to 
cherish  them;  that  it  was  his  asking  in  marriage  the 
hand  of  a  woman  he  did  not  love,  and  not  his  acceptance 
by  that  woman,  that  had  changed  him  in  her  eyes.  It 
was  n6*t  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given  her  love  who  had 
done  that,  it  was  another  whom  she  did  not  know.  And 
if  he  were  free  tomorrow,  if  Mabilia  died,  or  gave  him 
his  freedom,  still  she  would  not  marry  him.  She  would 
part  from  him  now  for  ever,  with  the  glory  of  the 
dream  still  upon  her;  but  if  he  forced  himself  on  her 
he  would  see  the  glory  fade  away.  By  gaining  he  would 
lose  her. 

He  threw  off  this  idea  impatiently.  She  loved  him, 
and  there  must  be  some  way  of  winning  her.  But  it 
came  up  before  him  again  and  again,  each  time  with 
more  force  than  before.  He  knew  her  so  well,  knew 
her  thoughts  and  her  ideals,  and  the  spiritual  essence 
that  illumined  her  passion.  At  last  he  was  sure  that  he 
had  read  her  mind  aright,  more  clearly,  perhaps,  than 
she  had  read  it  herself,  that  the  door  was  in  truth 
closed  upon  him,  and  that  it  was  no  more  in  her  power 
than  in  his  to  open  it. 


THE   AWAKENING  251 

Then  he  gave  way  to  despair.  Why  had  Fate  dealt 
so  cruelly  with  him?  Why  was  this  glimpse  of  perfect 
happiness  shown  to  him,  just  to  be  snatched  from  his 
grasp,  and  his  life  made  more  wretched  than  before? 

Anger  followed  despair.  He  would  gain  his  release 
from  Mabilia.  Then  he  would  go  and  take  her,  by  vio- 
lence if  need  be.  He  would  force  happiness  on  her  in 
spite  of  herself. 

Too  late!  The  seeds  of  decay  were  already  disin- 
tegrating her  love.  He  could  have  given  her  a  life's 
happiness  a  year  ago.  Now,  whatever  he  did,  he  could 
only  bring  her  misery. 

Then  his  own  nature  began  to  rise  up  against  him. 
He  had  spent  many  years  in  self-restraint  and  patient 
acceptance  of  the  second  best.  The  habits  of  a  life- 
time were  crying  within  him  to  be  resumed.  He  had 
surrendered  himself  wholly  to  the  delight  of  the  hour 
and  the  pendulum  was  swinging  back.  He  had  told 
Anne  once  that  he  was  afraid  of  happiness,  and  the 
happiness  that  at  that  time  seemed  to  be  in  his  grasp 
had  quickly  changed  into  gloom.  However  he  might 
struggle  now,  he  would  fare  no  better.  He  was  not 
to  be  blessed,  in  life  or  in  love. 

There  followed  a  more  exalted  mood.  She  had  asked 
this  sacrifice  of  him,  had  asked  it  as  if  he  owed  it  to 
her  and  to  his  higher  self.  Was  there  nothing  but 
inexplicable  obliquity  in  her  view  of  the  case?  Right  or 
wrong,  she  had  sacrificed  herself  to  it.  What  if  he  did 
her  bidding,  went  through  with  his  hard  task,  and  re- 
signed all  claim  to  her?  He  would  be  once  again  the 


252  MANY   JUNES 

lover  of  whom  she  had  demanded  of  right  all  noble 
action.  He  would  lose  her  body,  but  he  would  be  en- 
shrined in  the  secret  places  of  her  soul. 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  silent  sunny  room. 
The  tumult  of  his  thoughts  died  away.  He  suffered 
deeply,  but  the  peace  of  resignation  began  to  steal  over 
him.  By-and-by  he  rose  and  went  to  a  writing-table. 
To  her  he  wrote,  lingering  over  the  words  that  she 
would  hold  in  her  hand :  "  I  will  do  as  you  wish,  but  my 
love  is  yours  always."  And  to  Mrs.  Churton,  that  he 
would  return  to  London  the  next  morning. 

He  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  a  cart  to  be  brought 
round  for  him  which  he  would  drive  himself.  He  should 
not  be  back  to  dinner.  Some  supper  might  be  laid  for 
him  to  await  his  return. 

He  drove  to  the  post  town  seven  miles  away,  dropped 
his  letters  in  the  box,  and  drove  back  again  in  the 
dusk.  There  was  a  heavy  dew  and  the  air  was  full  of 
sharp  sweetness.  Night  moths  flitted  about  him,  his 
horse's  hoofs  beat  rhythmically,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
endlessly,  in  the  lonely  twilit  lanes.  They  seemed  to  be 
beating  in  his  brain  and  confusing  his  thoughts.  The 
solid  edifice  which  his  intellect  had  built  up  carefully, 
stage  by  stage,  and  on  which  that  mood  of  lofty  res- 
ignation had  put  the  coping  stone,  seemed  to  him  no 
more  than  a  house  on  paper,  an  empirical  design,  lack- 
ing the  test  of  reality. 

But  he  clung  obstinately  to  it.  He  had  seen  clearly, 
and  acted  on  his  vision,  rightly.  Only  his  feelings 
were  waking  again,  and  battling  against  his  will.  It 


THE   AWAKENING  253 

would  always  be  so.  The  struggle  had  not  ended  with 
surrender.  It  would  go  on  for  ever,  and  there  would 
never  come  a  time  when  heart  as  well  as  brain  would 
tell  him  that  he  had  done  right.  He  must  set  his  teetK 
and  cling  to  the  truth  as  he  had  once  seen  it,  even 
when  it  seemed  to  him  most  false. 

The  steady  beat  of  iron  on  stone  changed  its  tune. 
It  was  no  longer  confusing ;  it  rang  out  with  irresistible 
purpose ;  hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  year  by  year  going 
forward,  even  against  the  will  to  turn  aside. 

He  caught  at  this  new  mood,  and  stayed  his  mind 
with  it,  and  as  he  did  so  came  to  the  road  leading  to 
the  mill.  Across  the  hedges  and  the  moonlit  meadows 
the  roofs  and  chimneys  and  the  tall  poplars  showed  dark 
against  the  sky.  A  yellow  light  shone  from  an  upper 
window,  and  instantly  he  turned  his  horse's  head  towards 
it.  The  horse,  as  if  consciously  accepting  his  symbolical 
role,  would  have  disobeyed  the  rein  and  kept  straight 
on,  but  his  master's  determination,  unreasoning,  but 
all  powerful,  drove  him  aside  after  the  briefest  of 
struggles. 

The  lane  opened  out  into  a  wide  space.  It  was 
bounded  on  one  side  by  the  dark  irregular  length  of  the 
house,  crowned  by  that  beacon  window.  There  was  a 
smaller  curtained  window  beneath  it,  showing  a  per- 
pendicular blade  of  light.  At  right  angles  to  the  house 
was  a  row  of  buildings,  and  from  a  hollow  shadow  at 
the  end  of  them  emerged  a  tall  bent  man,  in  clothes  that 
seemed  to  be  specially  irradiated  by  the  moon.  It  was 
the  miller's  man,  of  whom  Margaret  had  spoken  to  him 


254  MANY  JUNES 

once,  in  the  lost  days  of  their  happiness,  a  man  of 
abysmal  taciturnity,  who  fed  deep  thoughts  in  a  floury 
solitude,  but  never  uttered  them.  He  came  forward 
and  took  Hugh's  horse  without  a  word,  as  if  he  had 
been  awaiting  him,  and  led  it  away. 

Hugh  went  through  a  little  garden  to  a  door  by  the 
side  of  the  curtained  window.  There  was  no  bell,  and 
no  knocker,  and  he  opened  it  straightway,  and  fell  back 
for  a  moment  in  surprise.  He  was  in  a  large  low 
black-raftered  room.  A  cavernous  hearth  faced  him. 
To  his  left  was  a  small  curtained  window,  but  at  the 
end  of  the  room  was  another  long  latticed  window,  open 
to  the  night,  and  beneath  it  an  oak  table  at  which,  with 
a  great  book  in  front  of  him,  and  a  shaded  lamp,  sat  an 
old  man  with  white  hair  and  a  long  white  beard,  gravely 
regarding  him. 

For  an  appreciable  space  of  time  he  stood  with  his 
hand  on  the  door  and  looked  at  the  old  man,  who  made 
no  sign  either  of  surprise  or  welcome.  Then  he  shut 
the  door,  and  instantly  the  silence  broke  into  bewilder- 
ing noise  and  movement.  For  when  he  turned  around 
again  Margaret  was  in  the  room  and  in  his  arms,  cry- 
ing to  him  and  her  grandfather,  the  old  man  had  turned 
in  his  seat,  and  Hugh  was  speaking  wildly  to  him  and 
comforting  her  at  the  same  time. 

The  confusion  died  down  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
arisen.  Confronted  by  that  figure  of  wise  and  placid 
age,  whom  this  sudden  cataclysm  of  feeling  had  moved 
to  no  more  than  a  slight  change  of  position,  who  spoke 
no  word,  but  looked  at  them  with  inscrutable  eyes, 


THE   AWAKENING  255 

waiting  on  them,  the  stress  of  emotion  faded  and  left 
them  facing  him  calmly. 

"  I  want  her  for  my  wife,"  said  Hugh,  in  a  voice 
that  did  not  sound  like  his  own.  "  I  come  to  ask  you 
for  her." 

A  thin  waxlike  hand  lay  on  the  book  in  front  of  the 
old  man,  and  moved  deliberately  up  and  down.  Other- 
wise he  was  motionless,  except  for  his  clear  eyes,  set 
under  a  white  pent-house,  which  he  now  turned  slowly 
upon  the  girl. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried  to  him,  "  I  want  him,  grandfather. 
Oh,  I  thought  I  could  give  him  up;  but  it  is  too  hard 
for  me." 

Again  the  steady  slow-moving  gaze  rested  on  Hugh. 
He  obeyed  it  as  if  it  had  been  spoken  word.  "  I  am 
Hugh  Lelacheur,"  he  said.  "  We  met  by  chance — 
more  than  a  week  ago.  I  love  her,  and  you  see  that  she 
loves  me." 

The  steadfast  gaze  still  rested  on  him,  but  the  girl 
broke  in.  She  was  clinging  to  his  arm.  They  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  under  a  heavy  beam.  "  We 
love  each  other  so  dearly,  grandfather.  And  he  is  so 
good,  but  his  life  has  been  unhappy." 

The  searching  eyes  had  not  moved  from  Hugh's  face. 
He  was  impelled  to  clear  statements.  "  We  met  by 
chance,"  he  said  again.  "  I  was  painting.  We  came 
to  love  each  other  almost  before  we  knew  of  it.  I  want 
your  permission  to  marry  your  granddaughter." 

He  would  not  speak  of  the  obstacle  that  had  come 
between  them  until  he  was  obliged.  It  was  no  obstacle 


256  MANY   JUNES 

to  him.     But  the  old  man  was  still  unsatisfied.      He 
spoke  at  last  in  a  low  clear  voice. 

"  What  else  is  there  to  tell?  "  he  asked. 

Again  the  girl  interposed.  "  He  told  me  this  after- 
noon," she  said,  twisting  her  fingers  together,  "  of— 
another,  whom  he  was  to  have  married.  I  said  it  came 
between  us,  and  we  said  good-bye.  But  I  can't  live 
without  him,  dear  grandfather.  When  I  heard  the 
wheels  just  now,  and  saw  him  come  in  I  came  straight 
to  him.  He  is  mine.  You  won't  tell  him  to  leave 
me?" 

The  clear  eyes  rested  on  Hugh  now,  as  it  seemed  to 
him  with  a  look  of  displeasure. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said,  "  that  I  was  to  have  married 
another  woman.  I  have  never  loved  her,  but  my  life 
was  very  lonely.  Now  I  know  what  love  is  I  see  that  it 
was  wrong  to  engage  myself  to  her.  I'm  sorry.  It  was 
my  fault.  Margaret  has  forgiven  me  for  it  now."  He 
drew  her  to  him.  "  It  won't  come  between  us." 

"  It  frightened  me,"  pleaded  the  girl.  "  It  seemed  to 
put  us  far  apart  when  he  told  me  this  afternoon.  But 
if  we  love  each  other  so  much  as  we  do,  we  shall  for- 
get it." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  now.  "  You  can  never 
forget  it,  my  child,"  he  said.  "  You  have  no  right  to 
forget  it.  What  does  your  faith  teach  you?  Love  is  a 
sacred  thing,  and  marriage  is  a  sacrament.  This  man 
has  put  it  out  of  his  power  to  offer  you  marriage:  he 
has  given  his  word  to  another.  The  Church  teaches 
you  that." 


THE   AWAKENING  257 

Hugh's  anger  rose,  and  an  inherited  Protestant  in- 
tolerance. Were  the  rules  of  a  Church  he  disliked  to 
be  brought  up  against  him  now?  "  You  can't  argue 
that  seriously,"  he  said  sharply.  "  She  shall  practise 
her  own  religion  without  interference  from  me." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  with  steady  eyes.  "  We 
speak  a  different  language,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  am 
not  in  reconciliation  with  the  Church,  but  there  are 
real  things  in  life  which  she  has  rightly  interpreted — 
things  which  Protestantism  leaves  alone.  This  is  one  of 
them."  He  turned  to  the  girl.  "  My  child,"  he  said, 
"  your  instinct  was  right.  The  blame  of  loving  does 
not  rest  with  you  " — he  threw  a  sudden  minatory  glance 
at  Hugh — "  but  as  soon  as  you  were  told  of  this  previ- 
ous contract,  it  was  for  you  to  crush  the  love  in  your 
breast."  His  voice  rose,  and  his  hands  shot  forward 
and  clutched  the  air  in  a  vigorous  gesture.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  was  all  fire.  Then  he  sank  again  into  motionless 
placidity. 

The  girl  drew  her  hands  away  from  Hugh,  hid  her 
face  in  them,  and  moaned. 

"  It  isn't  right,"  Hugh  cried.  "  You  are  taking 
away  her  happiness — and  mine — for  a  mere  rule.  We 
should  help  each  other  to  all  goodness.  If  ever  there 
was  a  love  sent  from  God,  this  is.  It  is  spiritual  and 
pure.  You  can't  allow  a  mistake  of  mine  to  wreck 
two  lives.  I  will  mend  it  as  far  as  I  can.  You  don't 
know  the  circumstances.  I  can  make  it  up  to ' 

"  You  rest  on  your  wealth,"  interrupted  the  old  man. 
**  That  is  a  mean  thought.  You  do  not  know  how  the 


258  MANY   JUNES 

minds  of  those  of  our  faith  work.  Margaret,  it  rests 
with  you." 

Hugh  turned  to  her,  and  began  to  plead  his  love 
passionately.  She  still  hid  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
made  little  sounds  of  pain  as  she  listened  to  him.  Her 
grandfather  sat  in  the  light  of  the  lamp,  like  some  silent 
inexorable  judge,  relying  on  the  law  and  the  strength  of 
the  law,  having  stated  it,  scorning  to  plead  its  cause. 
But  the  struggle  went  on  between  the  three  of  them, 
momentous,  in  the  quiet  dimly  lit  room,  while  outside 
brooded  the  silent  summer  night  over  miles  of  sleeping 
country. 

The  girl  raised  her  head  slowly.  Her  eyes  were  full 
of  pain.  She  looked  at  Hugh  with  infinite  tenderness 
and  longing,  hiding  nothing  of  her  love  for  him;  but 
against  that  look  his  pleading  died  down  into  bald  in- 
effective sentences,  and  ended  in  silence. 

She  came  to  him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders 
and  lifted  her  face  to  his.  "  Good-bye,  my  dearest," 
she  said.  He  kissed  her  gently,  and  looked  for  a  long 
time  into  her  eyes.  The  old  man  sat  silent  at  the  table, 
his  thifi  hand  rising  and  falling  on  the  page  of  his  book. 
The  clock's  tick  became  audible;  the  breath  of  the 
night  stole  through  the  casement.  Hugh  kissed  her 
again,  and  then  turned  and  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER    XX 

MAREIAGE 

HUGH  travelled  up  to  London  early  the  next  morning. 
He  was  his  old  self  once  again,  cold  and  self-contained, 
with  a  clear  outlook  on  life,  from  which  every  vestige  of 
glamour  had  departed.  He  thrust  the  pain  deep  into 
his  heart  and  thought  closely  of  all  that  it  behoved 
him  to  do  to  bury  his  week's  madness.  When  he 
thought  of  Mabilia  and  her  mother  he  had  to  choke 
down  a  kind  of  cold  anger,  which  possessed  him  unrea- 
sonably. He  would  go  to  them  at  once,  but  he  would 
neither  excuse  nor  explain.  It  would  need  constant 
restraint  to  hide  his  resentment  against  them.  In  keep- 
ing his  word,  and  concealing  what  it  had  cost  him  to 
keep  it,  the  limits  of  complacency  would  be  reached, 
and  they  must  find  their  satisfaction  in  discussing  with 
each  other  the  change  in  him,  for  he  would  suffer  no 
discussion  with  himself.  With  regard  to  them  his 
course  was  plain. 

It  was  not  so  easy  to  decide  other  things.  What 
would  come  in  the  future  from  the  echoes  of  his  van- 
ished dream?  It  was  impossible,  in  the  cold  light  of 
remembrance,  to  believe  that  the  secret  was  still  his. 
He  recalled  the  sidelong  looks  of  his  servants,  the 
undisguised  bewilderment  of  his  agent,  the  rebuffing  of 
country  neighbours.  Even  now  they  must  be  discussing 

259 


260 

his  behaviour  and  preparing  the  ground  for  the  seed 
of  disclosure  that  must  presently  spread  all  over  the 
countryside.  The  fields  and  woods  about  the  mill  were 
unfrequented.  He  had  never  seen  a  soul  in  them  when 
once  he  had  left  the  borders  of  his  own  park.  But  it 
was  too  much  to  expect  that  he,  in  whom  so  much  in- 
terest centred,  had  been  unmarked  in  his  comings  and 
goings.  There  would  be  gossip  of  servants,  gossip  of 
villagers,  tracking  his  movements,  and  sooner  or  later 
the  truth  would  come  out  and  he  would  be  held  up  to 
the  scorn  of  men. 

Well,  he  would  not  run  away.  He  would  face  it  out. 
What  would  it  matter — for  his  own  sake?  If  only  he 
could  have  shielded  her  from  obloquy  there  might  have 
been  a  dark  satisfaction,  even,  in  braving  it  himself. 
But  her  share  in  the  punishment  that  would  come  was 
beyond  his  power  to  lessen.  That  side  of  the  question 
would  not  bear  thinking  of.  He  set  his  teeth  and  made 
his  determination.  He  would  live  at  Wyse  Hall  and 
take  up  the  responsibilities  to  which  he  had  been  called. 
He  would  wrap  himself  close  in  his  cloak  of  reserve, 
first  against  Mabilia  and  her  mother,  then  against  his 
neighbours,  so  that  when  the  truth  should  become  known 
the  remnants  oir  his  pride  might  be  preserved  to  him  in 
the  face  of  open  reproach  or  cold  avoidance.  He  would 
have  no  joy  in  life  ever  again.  He  would  make  the 
best  of  what  still  remained. 

As  he  drove  to  his  rooms  in  the  distant  west  of 
London,  his  mind,  numbed  by  conflict  and  a  sleepless 
night,  dwelt  idly  on  trivial  matters,  but  he  had  no 


MARRIAGE  261 

sooner  reached  them  than  his  wretchedness  arose  and 
atabbed  him.  The  familiar  surroundings  spoke  in- 
sistently to  him  of  the  fluttering  pleasure  that  the 
thought  of  his  emancipation  had  brought  when  he  had 
last  stood  within  them.  And  they  told  of  the  years  of 
quiet  emotionless  existence  that  had  gone  before.  Com- 
pared to  the  darkness  in  which  he  was  henceforward  to 
walk,  the  twilight  of  those  past  days  seemed  radiant 
with  content  and  tranquility. 

He  ate  something  standing,  and  went  straight  to 
Mrs.  Churton's  house.  He  was  shown  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where  she  and  Mabilia  were  together.  The  maid 
who  conducted  him  upstairs  cast  a  wondering  glance 
at  his  lined  gloomy  face.  Mrs.  Churton's  first  excla- 
mation was  one  of  surprise  at  his  altered  appearance. 
"  Why,  you  must  have  been  ill !  "  she  cried.  "  Why  on 
earth  didn't  you  tell  us?  And  what  in  the  world  have 
you  been  doing  all  this  time  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  ill,"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with  her  and 
afterwards  with  Mabilia. 

"  Then,  please  explain  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Churton 
in  a  voice  to  which  policy  lent  an  air  of  badinage. 
"  Not  a  line  to  me  or  Mabilia !  Seriously,  you  know, 
Hugh,  it  has  put  us  in  a  very  awkward  posi- 
tion." 

"  I  think  you  owe  me  some  explanation,"  added 
Mabilia,  with  hauteur. 

"  I  have  none  to  give,"  he  said,  frowning  impa- 
tiently. 

Mabilia  and  her  mother  stared  at  one  another.     An 


262  MANY   JUNES 

air  of  alarm  mixed  itself  with  the  air  of  outraged  of- 
fence which  they  had  prepared  for  him. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  have  been  ill,  Hugh,"  said 
Mrs.  Churton,  in  a  more  subdued  tone.  "  But  I  will  not 
worry  you  about  it,  if  you  won't  admit  it.  Only,  of 
course,  Mabilia  has  been  anxious.  You  have  not  treated 
her  very  well,  I  think." 

"  I  am  used  to  the  treatment,"  said  Mabilia  bitterly. 
"  I  suppose  now  that  Hugh  has  come  into  a  title  and  a 
fortune  he  is  sorry  that  he  became  engaged  to^me." 

A  spasm  of  anger  took  him.  "  That  is  what  I 
should  expect  you  to  think,"  he  said  roughly. 

Mrs.  Churton  rose  from  her  chair.  "  I  will  leave 
you  together,"  she  said.  "  Your  actions  have  nothing 
to  do  with  me,  Hugh,  except  as  to  Mabilia's  happiness, 
but  I  am  not  used  to  being  treated  in  this  way."  And 
she  sailed  out  of  the  room.  Hugh  opened  the  door  for 
her.  It  was  a  relief  to  be  able  to  do  something.  When, 
in  the  train,  he  had  thought  over  what  he  would  not 
say  to  them,  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  decide  what 
he  would  say.  He  found  the  task  almost  insupportably 
difficult. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Hugh?"  asked  Ma- 
bilia, when  they  were  alone.  "  Why  do  you  treat  me 
like  this?" 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  he  said. 
"  Please  don't  keep  harping  on  that."  He  made  a  great 
effort  to  behave  as  if  his  words  were  true.  Rudeness 
and  irritation  would  not  put  him  into  the  position  he 
wished  to  occupy  before  Mabilia  and  her  mother. 


MARRIAGE  263 

"  Wyse  Hall  is  a  fine  place,"  he  said.  "  It  is  full  of 
beautiful  things.  We  will  go  there  when  we-come  home 
from  Switzerland." 

Mabilia's  resentment  merged  itself  in  a  mild  excite- 
ment. "  I  have  read  about  it,"  she  said.  "  It  is  a 
show  place.  I  should  like  you  to  take  me  there  soon, 
Hugh." 

"  I  shall  be  busy  in  London  until  we  are  married," 
he  said  shortly. 

"  But  you  can  spare  a  day  or  two.  There  will  be 
things  to  see  to  if  we  are  to  live  there." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  see  to.  My  cousin  lived  there 
up  to  the  time  he  left  England.  All  the  servants  have 
stayed  on.  We  could  go  and  live  there  tomorrow  with- 
out making  fresh  arrangements." 

"  Then  we  can  easily  go  down  for  a  few  days. 
Mother  would  like  to  see  the  place,  I  know." 

"  We  will  go  there  when  we  come  back  from  Switzer- 
land," he  said  again.  "  I  shall  not  leave  London  until 
we  are  married." 

Resentment  rose  in  her  again.  "  Why  do  you  take 
this  extraordinary  tone  with  me?  "  she  asked.  "  What 
have  I  done?  What  has  come  over  you?  Are  my 
wishes  to  count  for  nothing?  There  is  nearly  a  month 
before  the  wedding,  and  everything  is  ready.  I  want  to 
go  and  see  the  place  where  I  am  to  live.  Why  can't 
you  take  me  ?  " 

He  could  bear  no  more.  Every  word  she  spoke 
jarred  on  him.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to  look  at 
her.  He  rose  from  his  seat  and  said  coldly :  "  I  do  not 


264  MANY   JUNES 

choose  to  take  you  until  we  are  married.  Let  us  have 
no  more  words  about  it." 

She  sprang  up  from  her  seat  too.  "  You  are  be- 
having like  a  brute,"  she  cried.  "  What  on  earth  has 
come  over  you?  Ar«  you  doing  this  because  you  want 
to  get  rid  of  me,  now  you  have  everything  else  you 
want?" 

An  impulse  came  over  him  to  tell  her  brutally  how 
much  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of  her.  He  crushed  it  down. 
"  You  must  excuse  me,"  he  said  quietly,  with  a  return 
to  his  normal  self.  "  I  did  not  sleep  last  night.  I  will 
go  home  now.  Good-bye,  Mabilia." 

"  Hugh,"  she  said,  in  alarm,  "  you  are  not  going 
to  break  with  me?  " 

He  smiled  bitterly.  "  You  need  not  be  afraid  of 
that,"  he  said.  "  You  shall  have  more  than  you  bar- 
gained for  in  marrying  me.  But  you  will  do  as  I  wish. 
Good-bye." 

He  turned  and  left  the  room  without  further  fare- 
well. Mabilia  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  in  otter 
perplexity. 

The  few  weeks  before  the  wedding  went  by.  Hugh 
immersed  himself  in  business  with  his  lawyer  and  with 
his  agent,  whom  he  summoned  up  to  town.  Mr.  Gillett 
no  longer  found  him  averse  to  going  into  details  of  estate 
management.  He  wanted  to  know  everything,  and 
showed  plainly  that  he  meant  to  take  the  reins  in  ear- 
nest. "  What  has  come  over  him?  "  the  agent  and  the 
lawyer  asked  of  one  another,  and  hinted  that  his  head 


MARRIAGE  265 

had  been  turned  by  his  sudden  change  of  fortune.  But 
it  was  a  curious  turning  of  the  head.  He  showed  no 
pleasure  in  his  possessions,  lived  on  in  his  rooms  at 
Earl's  Court,  was  never  sociable,  but  kept  them  at 
arm's  length  and  talked  of  nothing  but  business. 

Mrs.  Churton's  friends,  some  of  whom  he  had  been 
unable  altogether  to  escape,  although  he  had  asked 
that,  on  the  regular  occasions  of  his  coming  to  the 
house,  he  should  not  have  to  meet  other  people,  tapped 
their  foreheads  significantly.  Dear  Mabilia  might  think 
herself  lucky  to  have  caught  a  rich  baronet — at  her 
age — but,  for  their  part,  they  would  be  sorry  to  have 
to  marry  such  a  man,  as  glum  as  a  bear,  and  so  stuck 
up  that  nobody  was  good  enough  for  him.  He  did  not 
seem  to  think  himself  very  lucky.  What  a  face  for  a 
prospective  bridegroom!  They  only  hoped,  for  dear 
Mabilia's  sake,  that  there  would  be  no  catastrophe  be- 
fore the  wedding.  When  once  she  was  Lady  Lelacheur 
they  supposed  she  would  be  satisfied.  She  might  even  be 
relieved  to  be  rid  of  him,  if,  as  seemed  very  likely,  he 
should  have  to  be — well,  put  away. 

Mrs.  Churton  and  Mabilia  seriously  thought  that 
Hugh's  brain  was  affected.  In  some  roundabout  way 
they  had  got  into  communication  with  Wyse  Hall,  and 
heard  that  while  he  had  been  there  he  had  insisted  upon 
being  alone  all  day,  and  spent  his  time  wandering  about, 
pretending  to  paint.  The  sudden  shock,  they  put  it 
down  to.  And  people  in  that  state  of  mind  often  showed 
delusions — such  as  an  unaccountable  dislike  to  their 
nearest  and  dearest.  It  was  painful,  of  course,  but  in 


266  MANY   JUNES 

all  other  respects  he  was  as  sane  as  they  were.  And 
there  were  compensations.  Under  the  circumstances 
they  did  not  press  him  to  come  to  the  house  more  often 
than  he  showed  a  desire  to — which  was  three  times  a 
week,  as  before.  They  were  happier  without  him,  buy- 
ing a  trousseau  on  an  enlarged  scale,  and  drawing  pic- 
tures for  the  benefit  of  their  friends,  and  them- 
selves. 

They  were  meek  in  Hugh's  presence.  His  brain  must 
not  be  excited  by  contradiction.  They  must  put  up 
with  all  his  fads — until  after  the  wedding ;  and  some  of 
them  were  not  easy  to  put  up  with.  It  was  difficult  to 
find  a  satisfactory  reason  for  Mabilia's  never  having 
seen  the  stately  house  over  which  she  was  to  reign.  But 
they  managed  it  somehow,  and  warded  off  persistent 
curiosity  by  warm  invitations  to  visit  at  Wyse  Hall  and 
view  Mabilia's  glory.  "  We  will  fill  the  house  with 
pleasant  people,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Churton,  taking 
it,  perhaps  not  unnaturally,  for  granted  that,  as  she 
had  been  willing  to  share  her  own  goods  with  her  daugh- 
ter and  son-in-law,  she  would  now  be  assigned  a  like 
share  in  theirs.  Mabilia  doubted  whether  the  house 
would  ever  be  filled  with  pleasant  people  of  the  sort  that 
her  mother  had  in  mind,  or  even  whether  Mrs.  Churton 
herself  would  be  made  entirely  welcome  there.  But  she 
kept  these  doubts  to  herself,  and  held  before  her  the 
tangible  assets  of  her  coming  marriage. 

They  were  married  on  the  day  that  had  been  ap- 
pointed many  weeks  before.  Mabilia,  in  orange  blossoms 
and  a  gown  of  ivory  satin,  gained  plaudits.  The  bride- 


MARRIAGE  267 

groom  was  dignified  and  reserved,  as  became  him,  but  it 
could  not  be  said  that  he  was  cordial  to  the  guests  who 
thronged  the  church  and  the  reception  at  Mrs.  Chur- 
ton's  house — nor  was  it  said,  but  very  much  the  reverse, 
although  he  behaved  with  less  eccentricity  than  had 
been  expected  of  him,  indeed,  with  no  eccentricity  at  all. 
His  best  man  was  a  former  colleague  at  the  insurance 
office.  The  Kynastons  were  the  only  other  personal 
friends  of  his  present.  To  them  alone  he  showed  cor- 
diality, but  they  shook  their  heads  as  they  journeyed 
back  to  their  office  in  the  Strand,  by  the  Underground 
Railway.  "  Lelacheur  was  the  last  man  I  should  have 
said  would  be  altered  by  prosperity,"  said  Kynaston; 
but  his  wife  thought  he  was  not  making  a  happy  mar- 
riage. 

Sir  Hugh  and  Lady  Lelacheur,  announced  the  papers, 
the  latter  in  a  dress  of  biscuit-coloured  cloth,  left  for 
Dover  on  their  way  to  the  Continent.  They  were  away 
for  a  month,  and  kept  to  the  most  frequented  places. 
This  suited  Mabilia  admirably.  She  liked  to  sail  into  a 
crowded  hotel  dining-room,  and  to  see  the  heads  of  the 
diners  approach  one  another  while  their  eyes  followed 
her.  She  liked  to  talk  affably  to  middle-class  com- 
patriots on  terraces,  in  gardens,  and  in  steamboats,  and 
sniff  the  incense  of  their  middle-class  awe  of  her  title. 
And  the  last  thing  she  desired  was  to  be  alone  with  her 
husband.  He  was  now  always  gravely  polite  to  her,  and 
her  fear  of  mental  disturbance  had  disappeared.  But 
he  kept  up  the  barrier  between  them.  She  bore  his 
name  but  shared  none  of  his  thoughts.  They  were 


268  MANY   JUNES 

greater  strangers  to  one  another  than  they  had  been 
a  year  before  on  the  moors  and  the  cliff  top  and  by  the 
sea.  He  would  leave  her  for  a  whole  day  at  a  time  and 
take  lonely  walks  in  solitude.  She  was  relieved  that  he 
should  do  so.  Her  fear  when  they  had  set  out  on  their 
journey  was  lest  he  should  take  her  to  lonely  places, 
such  as  she  knew  he  loved,  and  that  she  would  have  no 
companionship  but  his.  The  month  during  which  they 
were  abroad  was  supportable,  but  she  wished  it  ended. 
She  wanted  to  get  back  to  England  and  to  Wyse 
Hall. 

They  reached  home  on  a  day  of  mellow  September 
sunshine.  As  they  drove  from  the  station,  in  all  the 
state  that  years  before  had  aroused  Admiral  Lela- 
cheur's  wrath,  Mabilia  felt  at  last  that  she  was  rewarded 
for  all  she  had  gone  through  from  her  husband,  who  sat 
silent  and  gloomy  by  her  side.  His  feelings  towards  her 
were  perhaps  softer  than  they  had  ever  been.  She  was 
coming  into  her  kingdom,  as  he  had  come  into  his  three 
months  ago.  What  could  she,  with  her  narrow  nature, 
know  of  the  rapture  that  had  filled  his  life  only  a  few 
short  weeks  before?  It  was  enough  for  her  that  she 
was  going  to  live  in  a  great  house  and  would  be  looked 
up  to  as  a  lady  of  rank.  He  would  give  her  every- 
thing he  could  to  bring  her  contentment.  Fortunately 
she  did  not  want  what  he  could  not  give  her — his  con- 
fidence and  the  thoughts  of  his  heart. 

They  drove  in  through  the  entrance  gates  and  across 
the  park.  He  had  given  instructions  that,  owing  to  the 
tragedy  that  had  preceded  his  succession,  there  was  to 


MARRIAGE  269 

be  no  formal  welcome  from  his  tenants  and  dependants. 
They  came  to  the  old  house,  lying  still  and  beautiful 
beneath  the  evening  sky.  Mabilia  affected  a  stately 
indifference.  She  was  playing  her  part.  But  her  eyes 
showed  her  appreciation.  The  new  chapter  was  opened. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

POSSESSIONS 

WYSE  CHURCH  stood  on  the  slope  of  a  gentle  rise  in 
a  corner  of  the  park,  perhaps  half-a-mile  from  the 
house.  It  was  backed  by  a  grove  of  beech,  and  faced  a 
road  leading  to  a  lodge  gate,  upon  the  other  side  of 
which  lay  the  village.  It  was  very  old  and  very  quiet, 
far  enough  from  the  boundary  of  the  park  to  keep  it  in 
seclusion  on  week  days,  near  enough  to  draw  its  village 
congregation  on  Sundays.  It  had  been  restored  by 
Sir  Richard  Lelacheur,  and  the  interior  had  lost  that 
appearance  of  great  age  which  might  have  been  expected 
from  the  heavy  stones  and  Norman  arches  of  the  out- 
side, and  had  before  been  suggested  by  its  worm-eaten 
high  pews,  Jacobean  altar  table  and  ugly  faded  up- 
holstery, even  though  these  at  one  time  had  been  glar- 
ing innovations,  compared  with  which  the  later  restora- 
tion had  been  quite  innocuous.  The  old  squire's  pew  in 
the  chancel  had  been  replaced  by  an  organ  and  a  vestry, 
and  the  two  front  rows  of  oak  benches  in  the  nave  had 
been  substituted  for  it.  There  was  a  reredos  and  an 
altar  with  elaborate  hangings.  A  low  carved  pulpit 
had  replaced  the  old  three-decker.  The  carved  and 
painted  fifteenth-century  rood-screen  had  not  been 
touched,  but  there  was  already  a  proposal  on  foot  to 
restore  it  in  memory  of  Sir  Richard  and  his  family. 

270 


POSSESSIONS  271 

The  old  brasses  to  knightly  Lelacheurs  of  the  long- 
distant  past  still  lay  on  the  pavements  of  chancel  and 
nave.  A  big  window  of  plain  glass,  scattered  with 
armorial  bearings,  still  afforded  glimpses  of  the  sky 
at  the  east  end,  and  was  a  great  eyesore  to  the  Rector. 
And  no  improvements  had  availed  to  banish  from  the 
church,  the  floor  of  which  was  two  steps  lower  than  the 
ground  outside,  the  penetrating  smell  which  belongs  to 
ancient  stone-built  places. 

It  had  been  the  custom  of  the  villagers,  coming  by 
twos  and  threes  along  the  park  road  and  converging 
footpaths,  to  linger  in  the  churchyard  and  about  the 
lych-gate  until  the  family  from  the  Hall  had  arrived  and 
entered  the  porch,  when  they  would  troop  in  behind 
them,  nailed  boots  ringing  unabashed  on  stone  floors, 
and  take  their  places  for  the  service,  which  would  im- 
mediately afterwards  begin. 

It  was  upon  this  assembly  that  Hugh  and  Mabilia 
came,  on  the  Sunday  morning  after  their  home-coming. 
Mabilia  stepped  out  of  her  carriage,  and  walked  up  the 
churchyard  path  and  into  the  church  between  a  double 
row  of  her  husband's  tenants,  who  stared  at  her  with 
undisguised  curiosity,  of  which,  although  her  eyes 
looked  in  front  of  her,  she  was  agreeably  aware.  It 
was,  perhaps,  the  culmination  of  her  triumph.  She  was 
a  great  lady,  an  acknowledged  queen  in  this  little  cor- 
ner of  the  world,  surrounded  by  none  who  would  not 
acknowledge  her  greatness.  She  could  not  conceal  a 
smile  of  gratification  as  she  walked  up  the  church  and 
knelt  in  her  seat,  but  there  was  nothing  in  front  of  her 


272  MANY   JUNES 

but  the  chancel  and  the  altar,  and  it  was  marked  by 
none  of  her  fellow-worshippers. 

Hugh  followed  her,  his  face  set  and  inscrutable.  He 
had  been  nerving  himself  to  this  moment,  his  first  public 
appearance  among  his  neighbours.  His  eyes  were 
watchful,  though  none  could  have  said  that  they  met 
them.  He  thought  he  saw  whisperings  and  strange 
looks,  and  hugged  more  closely  his  cloak  of  pride.  He 
watched  for  a  glance  from  the  clergyman,  who  took  his 
place  at  the  reading  desk  inside  the  screen.  He  got  it, 
and  did  not  know  whether  it  meant  outraged  bewilder- 
ment or  merely  natural  curiosity.  He  tried  to  analyze 
the  stares  of  the  school  children  and  the  few  villagers 
who  formed  the  choir,  but  he  could  make  nothing  of 
them.  He  waited  for  the  sermon,  suspected  a  hidden 
application  in  the  text  and  condemnation  in  a  score 
of  platitudinous  sentences  which  followed.  He  even 
looked  askance  at  the  hymns  and  read  them,  through  as 
the  tunes  were  being  played  over. 

Mabilia,  standing,  kneeling,  and  sitting  beside  him, 
was  occupied  with  far  different  thoughts,  into  which 
her  husband's  figure  rarely  intruded,  although  it  stood 
in  the  background,  slightly  readjusted  in  her  mind. 
She  went  through  the  service  in  a  glow  of  satisfaction 
and  what  stood  to  her  for  happiness. 

It  was  all  far  more  splendid  and  rooted  than  she 
had  imagined.  The  house  alone — she  had  visualized  it 
as  "  a  show  place,"  and  read  what  she  could  find  to 
read  of  its  glories.  She  had  enjoyed,  in  a  way,  the 
prospect  of  living  in  a  house  which  people  were  allowed 


POSSESSIONS  273 

to  come  and  gape  at,  but  she  had  told  her  friends 
that  the  drawbacks  would  counterbalance  the  advan- 
tage. "  What  is  the  good  of  having  a  queen's  bed- 
room that  you  cannot  sleep  in?"  she  had  asked,  "and 
a  ball-room  and  saloons  and  picture  galleries  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  that  you  don't  want  to  use,  besides  collec- 
tions of  priceless  pictures  and  plate  and  china  and  fur- 
niture which  are  only  an  anxiety?  I  don't  want  to  live 
in  a  museum.  I  would  much  rather  have  a  house  like 
the  Dickson-Ponders',  where  all  the  rooms  are  used  and 
everything  is  comfortable  and  just  as  it  should  be." 
Her  friends  had  sympathized  with  her  before  her  face 
and  laughed  at  her  behind  her  back. 

The  splendid  house,  of  which  she  had  hardly  as  yet 
gained  more  than  an  impression,  rose  up  before  her, 
with  its  old  and  priceless  treasures  heightening  the 
beauty  of  spacious  rooms,  all  adapted  to  the  easy 
modern  life  of  its  owners.  Her  husband's  predeces- 
sors had  used  every  room  in  it  for  their  large  family 
and  many  friends.  Here  was  a  state  of  which  she  had 
had  no  previous  experience,  but  it  was  subordinated  to 
the  pleasure  and  comfort  of  those  who  had  held  it. 
The  picture  with  which  Mabilia  warmed  her  heart  dur- 
ing the  progress  of  the  service  was  a  jumble  of  mag- 
nificent rooms  of  state,  and  smaller  ones  as  fine  in  their 
beautiful  plenishing;  crowds  of  servants,  watchful,  soft- 
footed,  with  no  obtrusive  personalities  to  disturb  the 
perfection  of  their  service;  fires  everywhere;  everything 
made  ready;  an  effect  of  careless  wealth  and  splendid 
ostentation  which,  somehow,  was  not  ostentation  at 


274  MANY   JUNES 

all.  This  was  like  no  "show  place  "  that  she  had  ever 
dreamt  of,  with  ancient  magnificence  sharply  cut  off 
from  daily  life,  although  in  its  spoils  of  beauty  it  could 
hold  its  own  with  any.  Nor  was  it  in  the  least  like 
the  Dickson-Ponders'  lavishly  furnished  modern  castle, 
hitherto  the  pattern  of  opulent  comfort,  but  now  vul- 
gar and  ostentatiously  extravagant.  She  had  caught 
the  same  note  and  felt  herself  born  to  it. 

And  there  was  another  source  of  gratified  pride. 
She  had  hugged  her  new  title  as  a  pleasant  plaything, 
but  her  husband's  family  had  meant  little  or  nothing 
to  her.  It  was  well  that  he  was  a  baronet,  but  she 
would  much  rather  have  married  a  peer  of  no  ancestry 
whatever.  But  now,  with  a  mind  quick  to  form  such 
impressions,  she  stood  with  him  at  the  end  of  a  line  of 
such  old  distinction,  both  in  wealth  and  place,  that  the 
baronetcy  became  a  mere  incident  in  the  tale  of  achieve- 
ment. At  her  feet  was  the  brass  of  a  Lelacheur  who 
had  been  Knight  of  the  Garter  long  before  the  families 
of  most  existing  peers  had  been  heard  of;  there  was  a 
crusader's  tomb  in  a  niche  of  the  south  wall,  a  battered 
helmet  and  long  two-handled  sword  opposite  to  it. 
Every  monument  and  pane  of  coloured  glass  in  the 
church  told  some  tale  from  the  history  of  the  same  an- 
cient family,  and  the  house  was  full  of  memorials  of  its 
long-dead  members :  armour  and  banners  and  robes, 
portraits  and  parchments,  with  countless  personal  pos- 
sessions, still  freely  used,  cementing  the  sober  present 
with  the  long  and  glorious  past.  Her  husband's  ap- 
parent indifference  to  all  these  things  was  the  right 


POSSESSIONS  275 

attitude.  You  did  not  talk  about  your  ancestry  when 
you  were  so  highly  placed  as  this.  You  hugged  it  in 
secret.  So,  at  least,  thought  Mabilia,  and  considered 
ways  of  making  the  secret  known  and  at  the  same  time 
preserving  a  voiceless  pride.  It  would  go  hard  with 
her  if  she  did  not  find  abundant  satisfaction  in  a  life 
with  such  trappings.  Lady  Lelacheur  of  Wyse  Hall 
was  a  greater  personage  than  ever  she  had  imagined, 
and  Mabilia  Lelacheur  was  well  fitted  for  such  emi- 
nence. 

After  the  service  was  over,  when  the  vicar  had  left 
the  chancel,  the  rest  of  the  congregation  remained  in 
their  places.  It  was  Mabilia  who  divined  that  she  and 
Hugh  were  expected  to  lead  the  way  out  of  church,  and 
they  walked  down  the  aisle  between  the  benches  with 
every  eye  fixed  upon  them. 

"  We  will  wait  for  the  vicar,  and  you  had  better  ask 
him  to  lunch,"  Hugh  said  to  his  wife.  She  got  into  the 
carriage  and  he  waited  by  the  gate  while  the  villagers 
passed  him  on  their  homeward  way.  He  shook  hands 
with  Gillett  and  introduced  him  to  Mabilia,  and  spoke 
to  one  or  two  to  whom  Gillett  had  made  him  known 
on  the  first  day  of  his  arrival.  They  were  mostly  awk- 
ward in  their  acknowledgments  of  his  words,  but  he 
could  not  discover  in  their  speech  any  signs  of  what  he 
feared,  and  Gillett  talked  easily,  although  in  rather 
more  subdued  a  manner  than  at  first. 

The  vicar  came  down  the  path  rather  hurriedly.  He 
was  a  man  of  forty-five,  a  bachelor,  half  priestly,  half 
bucolic,  with  a  thin  shaven  face,  an  old  soft  felt  hat  and 


276  MANY   JUNES 

thick  nailed  boots.  He  had  called  on  Hugh  twice  two 
months  before  and  had  not  seen  him.  He  was  evidently 
nervous,  as  he  looked  up  at  his  patron  from  beneath  a 
pair  of  bushy  eyebrows.  Hugh  shook  hands  with  him 
and  said :  "  I  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  when  I  came 
down  before."  His  nervousness  subsided,  and  he  became 
voluble,  over-friendly,  accepted  Mabilia's  invitation 
with  alacrity,  and  got  into  the  carriage  with  them.  He 
could  have  heard  nothing. 

The  country  neighbours  called.  They  though't  Ma- 
bilia  very  well,  but  inclined  to  be  patronizing,  at  which 
some  of  them  laughed  and  others  took  offence.  Those 
of  them  who  saw  Hugh,  compared  him  unfavourably 
with  Sir  Richard.  "  They  say  he  is  eccentric,"  they 
said.  "  Neither  of  them  is  a  great  acquisition."  Hugh 
read  their  faces  keenly. 

He  asked  some  of  them  to  shoot  his  partridges  with 
him.  If  he  had  been  capable  of  enjoying  anything  he 
would  have  enjoyed  the  clear  days  of  September  and 
October,  standing  under  the  thinning  hedgerows,  tramp- 
ing across  roots  and  stubble.  He  had  not  fired  a 
cartridge  since  his  boyhood's  days,  but  was  proficient 
enough  not  to  disgrace  himself.  He  learned  the  secrets 
of  driving  the  birds  to  and  fro,  posted  the  guns  him- 
self and  brooked  no  dictation  from  his  own  keeper. 
Sir  Richard's  favourite  retriever  attached  herself 
to  him  and  would  fetch  and  carry  for  no  one 
else. 

One  morning  when  it  was  suggested  that  the  fields 
round  Paston's  mill  should  be  driven  he  acquiesced,  but 


POSSESSIONS  277 

before  the  guns  came  to  them  he  pleaded  a  headache  and 
went  home. 

He  spent  most  of  his  mornings  with  Gillett  in  his 
business-room  or  in  the  estate  office.  The  agent  told  the 
vicar  that  he  learnt  everything  with  extraordinary 
quickness,  and  had  an  eye  for  every  detail.  But  he  did 
not  like  him.  After  dinner  he  would  sit  in  the  long 
library.  When  Mabilia  was  with  him  he  read;  when 
she  had  gone  to  bed  he  sat  and  looked  in  front  of  him. 

One  lovely  morning,  early  in  October,  Mabilia  pro- 
posed that  they  should  go  out  sketching.  "  There  is  a 
most  picturesque  old  mill,"  she  said.  "  I  have  seen  it 
from  the  road.  It  would  make  a  charming  picture." 

"  You  are  not  to  go  near  it,"  he  said  roughly,  and 
when  she  exclaimed,  in  aggrieved  astonishment,  added: 
"  It  does  not  belong  to  me.  You  must  go  nowhere  but 
on  my  own  land." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  she  said.  "  But  there  could  not  be 
much  harm.  Where  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  coming,"  he  said.     "  I  have  work  to  do." 

Mabilia  sometimes  went  sketching  while  the  fine 
weather  lasted,  but  Hugh  never,  from  the  time  of  their 
marriage. 

As  the  weeks  went  on  his  apprehension  died  away. 
There  had  been  no  sign,  no  word,  no  looks  of  meaning' 
from  his  own  servants  or  from  the  people  he  met  in 
church  or  village  or  country  lane.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  no  one  should  have  seen  him  near  the  waters  of  the 
mill,  since  he  had  frequented  them  day  after  day  with 
no  efforts  towards  concealment.  But  it  must  have  been 


278  MANY   JUNES 

so.  He  knew  that  his  servants  had  attributed  his  long 
absences  and  his  disregard  of  business  and  correspond- 
ence to  eccentricity.  Probably  they  had  welcomed  a 
more  usual  mode  of  life  as  the  result  of  his  marriage, 
for  there  was  now  no  echo  of  past  mistrust  in  their 
demeanour. 

One  day,  after  he  had  told  himself  at  last  that  the 
secret  of  those  days  was  his  own,  he  said  something  to 
Gillett  about  the  mill  and  the  land  around  it.  "  Old 
Paston  is  as  tough  as  an  oak,"  said  Gillett.  "  He's 
over  seventy,  but  he  may  live  to  a  hundred,  and  last 
out  you  and  me.  He  lives  all  alone  now.  His  grand- 
daughter has  gone  away  again."  Hugh  said  no  more. 
He  had  heard  her  name  mentioned.  Before  that  she 
might  have  been  living  on  the  other  side  of  the  world 
instead  of  at  his  doors,  for  all  he  had  heard  of  her  since 
they  had  parted.  She  had  never  been  seen  about  the 
village,  and  was  regarded  by  the  villagers  as  part  of 
the  enigma,  which  they  had  long  since  tired  of  trying 
to  solve,  in  the  life  of  her  grandfather. 

But  at  the  beginning  of  the  new  year  her  name  sud- 
denly forced  itself  upon  every  pair  of  ears  within  a 
radius  of  twenty  miles. 

The  vicar  came  one  afternoon  to  drink  tea  with 
Mabilia.  It  was  one  of  his  chief  pleasures  in  life.  To 
him  she  was  the  type  of  aristocratic  graciousness,  a 
figure  more  imposing  than  Lady  Victoria  Lelacheur, 
Sir  Richard's  wife,  who  had  had,  it  is  true,  more  easy 
manners,  and  had  displayed  no  condescension  to  him, 
but  had  shown  a  most  feminine  distaste  for  village  gos- 


POSSESSIONS  279 

sip.  Mabilia  patronized  him,  and  he  accepted  her 
patronage  as  a  mark  of  her  breeding,  but  she  also 
turned  a  willing  ear  to  the  tittle-tattle  with  which  he 
regaled  her.  This  combination  of  qualities,  pointed  by 
the  rich  surroundings  of  Wyse  Hall,  pleased  his  palate, 
and  he  questered  like  a  hound  for  food  to  supply 
them. 

He  came  hurrying  up  the  drive  from  his  vicarage  in 
the  village  street,  and  inquired  for  Lady  Lelacheur  with 
such  eagerness  that  the  butler  who  opened  the  door  to 
him  was  impelled  to  remark  to  his  underling  that  there 
was  something  in  the  wind,  and  old  Hobnails  had  been 
the  first  to  sniff  it  out,  as  usual. 

Hugh  was  in  his  wife's  morning-room,  which  occa- 
sioned the  messenger  of  tidings  some  embarrassment, 
for  he  was  not  at  ease  with  his  patron,  and  found  little  to 
admire  in  the  pride  of  the  husband,  however  much  it 
might  please  him  in  the  wife. 

"  Such  a  piece  of  news ! "  he  said,  accepting  a  cup 
of  tea  from  Mabilia's  hand,  with  a  side  glance  at  Hugh, 
standing  upright  in  front  of  the  fire.  "  Have  you  ever 
set  eyes  on  the  old  man  at  Paston's  mill,  Sir  Hugh?  " 

Hugh  had  begun  to  relax  his  vigilance.  The  an- 
nouncement of  news,  which  would  have  steeled  him  for 
anything  that  might  follow,  a  month  ago,  had  conveyed 
no  warning  to  him,  and  his  face  went  white.  But  the 
vicar,  having  asked  his  question,  had  looked  down  upon 
his  tea-cup  again  and  Mabilia's  eyes  were  not  raised. 
He  put  strong  constraint  upon  himself,  took  a  sip  of 
his  tea  before  replying,  and  then  said  "  No,"  in  a  voice 


280  MANY   JUNES 

which  sounded  strange  to  him,  but  brought  no  notice 
from  the  others. 

"  No ;  well,  I'm  not  surprised,"  said  the  vicar.  "  He 
is  a  hermit,  and  gossip  says  a  miser  as  well.  He 
has  lived  in  that  house  for,  let  me  see — how  manj 
years  ?  " 

"  Pray  tell  us  your  news,  Mr.  Hobnell,"  said  Mabilia 
leaning  back  in  her  chair  and  fingering  her  bracelet; 
"  one  hears  little  enough,  nowadays." 

The  vicar  made  haste  to  get  rid  of  his  budget. 
"  Paston  has  a  granddaughter,"  he  began,  and  again 
Hugh's  eyelids  quivered.  "  Nobody  has  ever  seen  her, 
hardly.  In  fact,  she  has  been  abroad  until  quite  lately. 
Well  now,  what  do  we  hear?  All  of  a  sudden,  and  no- 
body knowing  anything  about  it,  she's  gone  away  and 
got  married." 

Hugh  put  his  cup  down  on  the  table,  and  turned 
round  to  poke  the  fire.  His  action  merely  seemed  to 
indicate  the  same  indifference  as  his  wife's,  "  Well,  I 
don't  see  anything  very  extraordinary  in  that,"  she 
said. 

"  Ah !  but  wait  a  minute.  If  she  were  marrying  a 
stranger — well  and  good!  But  who  do  you  think  the 
happy  bridegroom  is?  " 

"How  on  earth  can  I  tell?"  said  Mabilia  disdain- 
fully. 

"  A  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  her  grand- 
father, almost.  A  man  in  a  much  better  position  than 
hers.  A  clergyman — in  fact,  Mr.  Freeling,  the  Rector 
of  Sivathling!" 


POSSESSIONS  281 

He  brought  out  his  statements  with  progressive 
emphasis,  and  looked  triumphantly  for  their  re- 
sult. 

"  How  tiresome !  "  said  Mabilia  languidly.  "  I  sup- 
pose she  will  hardly  expect  me  to  call  on  her?  " 

"  Oh,  they  are  not  going "  began  the  vicar,  but 

Hugh  interrupted  sharply :  "  Mr.  Freeling  never  called 
upon  you.  There  is  nothing  tiresome  in  it.  You  will 
let  them  alone." 

Mabilia  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  flushed  with  annoy- 
ance. "  I  shall  certainly  leave  them  alone,"  she  said. 
"  In  fact,  I  cannot  see  that  your  news  is  of  the  slightest 
interest,  Mr.  Hobnell." 

The  vicar  showed  himself  pathetically  confused  by 
this  reception.  "  I  thought  you'd  like  to  hear  of  it,"  he 
said.  "  Nobody  else  knows,  yet.  I  had  it  from  the 
Bishop's  chaplain,  whom  I  saw  this  morning.  It's  not 
usual,  an  elderly  clergyman  marrying  the  daughter  of 
a  miller." 

"  Well,  of  course,  it  is  rather  odd,"  admitted  Mabilia 
handsomely.  There  was  no  need  to  ask  questions.  The 
vicar  would  tell  her  everything.  But  she  would  prefer 
to  let  him  reveal  himself  undisturbed  by  her  husband's 
presence.  She  looked  up  at  Hugh.  His  set  and  frown- 
ing face  betrayed  no  more  to  her  than  an  habitual 
moroseness,  to  which  she  was  becoming  habituated,  but 
which  none  the  less  aroused  resentment.  "  I  don't  sup- 
pose you  care  to  listen  to  village  gossip,  Hugh,"  she 
said.  "  Mr.  Hobnell  is  kind  enough  to  regale  me  with 
it.  It  relieves  the  dulness  a  trifle." 


282  MANY   JUNES 

"  When  did  this  marriage  take  place?  "  asked  Hugh, 
taking  no  notice  of  his  wife. 

"  Some  days  ago,"  replied  the  vicar,  livening  up  a 
little  at  this  mark  of  interest.  "  Freeling  is  a  queer 
character.  None  of  us  see  much  of  him.  Swathling 
is  a  big  church  in  a  tiny  parish,  and  he  never  sets  foot 
outside  it,  except — and  that  has  always  been  remarked 
— to  come  and  see  old  Paston,  at  the  mill.  Paston  is 
said  to  be  a  Roman  Catholic.  He's  probably  much 
nearer  an  atheist,  as  no  one  has  ever  heard  of  his  going 
to  Mass ;  and  I  don't  believe  Freeling  is  much  better.  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  ask  him  to  preach  in  my  church, 
or  to  officiate  in  his.  It's  nothing  but  a  great  empty 
barn,  and  he's  never  done  anything  to  beautify  it. 
They  say  he  educated  this  girl  at  a  convent  in  France, 
and  the  gossip  has  always  been,  though  I  never  listened 
to  it,  that  he  meant  to  marry  her  sooner  or  later.  Now, 
of  course,  one  sees  that  there  was  something  in  it.  I 
don't  know  what  sort  of  a  girl  she  is,  because  I've  never 
seen  her." 

"  Then  you  can  leave  her  name  out  of  the  discus- 
sion," said  Hugh  sharply.  "  I  will  leave  you  to  talk 
it  over  with  my  wife." 

He  walked  down  the  long  room  towards  the  door, 
but  as  he  reached  it  something  was  said  which  caused 
him  to  turn  round,  with  his  fingers  on  the  handle. 

"  And  I  hope  the  new  rector  will  be  an  improvement 
on  the  old." 

"What  did  you   say?"  he  asked. 

"  I  was  telling  Lady  Lelacheur,  Sir  Hugh,"  said  the 


POSSESSIONS  283 

vicar,  raising  his  voice,  "  that  the  Bishop's  chaplain 
told  me  that  Mr.  Freeling  has  exchanged  his  living  for 
one  in  Devonshire,  so  we  shall  not  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  anything  of  the  miller's  daughter  turned  parson's 
wife." 

Hugh  went  out  of  the  room  and  into  his  own  study, 
and  locked  the  door  after  him. 

Early  in  the  spring  Mabilia  went  to  London  to  stay 
with  her  mother  for  a  fortnight.  Hugh  had  never  left 
Wyse  Hall  since  they  had  come  to  it  in  September. 
He  had  let  his  house  in  Grosvenor  Square  again,  having 
curtly  refused  Mabilia's  request  that  they  might  occupy 
it  themselves  during  the  London  season.  "  I  shall  never 
live  in  London,"  he  said.  "  If  you  want  to  go  there 
you  can  stay  with  Mrs.  Churton,  or  at  an  hotel."  And 
Mabiiia  had  clutched  at  a  respite  from  a  life  that  had 
already  become  insupportably  dull  to  her. 

Mrs.  Churton  had  also  found  Wyse  Hall  intolerably 
dull  when  she  had  visited  her  daughter  in  November, 
and  again  for  a  week  at  Christmas.  Mabilia's  grandeur 
afforded  her  small  gratification,  since  none  of  her  own 
friends  were  permitted  to  see  it,  and  she  gained  more 
satisfaction  from  describing  than  from  observing  it. 
Mabilia's  grandeur  had,  in  fact,  aroused  in  Mrs.  Chur- 
ton some  annoyance.  She  had  no  objection,  she  told 
herself,  to  her  daughter's  giving  herself  airs,  generally, 
but  it  was  a  little  too  much  to  expect  that  she  should 
be  expected  to  put  up  with  them  herself.  Mabilia  was  a 
great  lady,  no  doubt,  and  airs,  to  Mrs.  Churton,  were 


284  MANY  JUNES 

a  natural  expression  of  greatness ;  but  Mabflia's  was  not 
the  only  fine  house  that  was  open  to  her,  and  if  she  was 
to  be  made  to  feel  that  she  was  there  on  sufferance, 
well,  she  would  go  elsewhere,  or  else  stop  at  home.  It 
was  not  Hugh's  treatment  of  her  that  she  resented.  He 
refused  to  have  Mabilia's  former  friends  in  the  house, 
but  his  welcome  of  her  had  been  almost  cordial.  She 
had  found  a  great  improvement  in  him,  especially  on 
the  occasion  of  her  second  visit.  He  no  longer  seemed 
to  be  in  arms  against  her,  and  if  he  was  still  morose  at 
times,  and  behaved  rather  like  a  bear  to  his  wife,  Mrs. 
Churton  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  blame  him, 
considering  Mabilia's  absurd  ways  and  discontented 
petulance. 

Mrs.  Churton  had  written  that  she  should  be  glad  to 
have  Mabilia  with  her  as  long  as  it  pleased  her  to  stay, 
but  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  as  she  wrote,  that  there 
should  be  no  airs  in  Tier  house.  She  had  been  a  good 
mother  to  Mabilia,  and  given  her  everything  that  it  was 
in  her  power  to  give.  She  would  treat  Lady  Lela- 
cheur  in  the  same  way  as  she  had  treated  Mabilia 
Churton,  no  better  and  no  worse.  If  she  cared  to 
make  herself  happy  for  a  time  in  her  mother's  house, 
and  among  her  old  friends,  it  should  be  on  those  condi- 
tions. The  airs  must  be  kept  for  the  friends,  upon 
whom  Mrs.  Churton  had  exercised  a  few  herself. 

Mabilia  brought  a  maid  and  a  great  stock  of  clothes, 
which  she  proposed  further  to  increase,  for  she  had  a 
handsome  allowance  from  her  husband  and  money  in 
addition  from  her  mother.  She  compared  the  size  of 


POSSESSIONS  285 

the  bedroom  that  was  assigned  to  her  with  her  own  at 
Wjse  Hall,  and  remarked  on  the  general  pokiness  of 
the  house.  Mrs.  Churton,  whose  heart  was  hot  within 
her,  waited,  and,  during  the  course  of  the  afternoon 
and  evening,  gathered  further  material  for  displeasure. 

The  outburst  came  when  Mabilia  announced  her  in- 
tention of  breakfasting  in  her  bedroom. 

"  No,"  snapped  out  Mrs.  Churton,  the  word  coming 
like  a  pistol  crack.  Mabilia  stared  at  her. 

"  You  are  not  an  invalid,"  said  Mrs.  Churton, 
"  breakfast  is  at  half-past  nine  in  the  dining-room,  and 
you  will  come  down  to  it  as  you  have  always  done,  if 
you  want  any  breakfast  at  all." 

"  I  always  breakfast  in  my  own  apartments  at  home," 
began  Mabilia ;  but  her  mother  broke  in  on  her. 

"  Your  only  apartments  here,"  she  said,  with  an  in- 
flection of  contempt  on  the  word  used,  "  besides  your 
own  bedroom,  are  the  rooms  which  you  will  share  with 
me.  I  have  had  enough  of  it,  Mabilia.  If  you  con- 
descend to  come  and  stay  in  this  house  you  will  please 
to  behave  yourself.  If  your  own  mother  and  your  own 
mother's  house  are  not  good  enough  for  you,  by  all 
means  go  and  stay  somewhere  else.  You  may  be  my 
lady  to  the  rest  of  the  world ;  to  me  you  are  my  daugh- 
ter, Mabilia." 

The  somewhat  acrid  discussion  that  followed  ended 
in  Mabilia's  breaking  into  tears  and  saying  that  she 
had  no  wish  to  quarrel  with  her  mother,  who  was  the 
only  friend  she  had  in  the  world.  "  I  am  absolutely 
miserable,"  she  said.  "  I  have  got  everything  I  thought 


286  MANY   JUNES 

I  wanted,  and  I  don't  care  for  any  of  it.  Hugh  never 
speaks  a  kind  word  to  me,  and  he  keeps  me  in  that  great 
house  just  like  a  prisoner.  I  am  beginning  to  hate  it." 

"  It  is  the  sort  of  prison  that  most  people  would  be 
very  glad  to  have,"  said  Mrs.  Churton  uncompromis- 
ingly, "  and  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have  no  difficulty 
in  getting  away  from  it  when  you  wish  to.  As  for  Hugh 
never  speaking  a  kind  word  to  you,  I  have  not  heard 
you  speak  many  kind  words  to  him.  He  seems  to  me 
to  be  greatly  improved  from  what  he  was  immediately 
before  his  marriage.  There  is  no  sign  any  longer  of 
what  we  feared  then,  and  if  he  is  cold  towards  you,  I 
expect  it  is  because  you  do  not  give  him  what  he 
wants." 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  know  he  wants,"  said  Mabilia, 
in  a  low  voice,  drying  ner  tears  on  a  lace  handkerchief. 

"  He  wants  an  heir,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Churton 
frankly. 

"  It  is  not  an  heir  so  much.  I  believe  he  would  rather 
have  a  daughter  than  a  son.  I  believe  he  never  forgets 
that  child  of  his  sister's." 

"  I  thought  he  had  put  that  old  trouble  away  from 
him.  He  did  not  go  down  to  Foyle  at  Christmas.  Is  he 
going  at  Easter  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  I  should  no  more  venture  to  speak 
of  those  things  to  him  than  one  of  the  under-footmen 
would." 

"  We  have  agreed  to  drop  the  under-footmen  for  the 
present.  Of  course,  Mabilia,  I  acknowledge  that  your 
complaints  are  justified  to  a  certain  extent.  Hugh  cer- 


POSSESSIONS  287 

tainly  does  not  treat  you  with  confidence,  or  even  with 
affection." 

"  He  treats  me  with  absolute  aversion.  I  believe  he 
hates  the  very  ground  I  walk  on.  His  very  politeness 
shows  it,  for  he  has  changed  again  in  the  last  month, 
mother.  He  will  have  his  own  way  in  everything,  but 
he  is  not  so  irritable.  He  simply  seems  to  take  no  pleas- 
ure in  anything.  And  you  know  I  was  prepared  to 
love  him.  I  don't  now.  It  would  be  impossible.  But  I 
believe  if  I  did  he  would  dislike  it  more  than  anything 
else." 

"  Well,  it  is  certainly  a  strange  state  of  things.  No- 
body put  any  pressure  on  him  to  marry  you,  and  I  don't 
believe  it  was  for  the  sake  of  money,  for  you  remember 
the  attitude  he  took  up  about  that.  Mabilia,  do  you 
think  there  is  another  woman?" 

"  My  dear  mother,  what  an  absurd  idea !  He  knew 
nobody  before  we  went  to  Wyse,  and  he  never  goes  out- 
side the  place." 

"  Well,  it  does  not  seem  likely.  But  he  might  behave 
just  in  the  way  he  does,  if  it  were  so.  It  has  sometimes 
occurred  to  me.  Well,  Mabilia,  you  have  got  a  very 
fine  house  and  a  great  position.  You  must  content 
yourself  with  that.  When  you  get  tired  of  Wyse  Hall 
— and  I  own  that  I  should  find  it  dull  myself,  living 
there  all  the  year  round — you  can  come  here — that  is, 
if  you  can  content  yourself  with  what  I  can  offer  you. 
Now  I  think  we  had  better  go  to  bed.  You  can  tell 
Wallace  to  call  you  at  half-past  eight." 

Hugh  did  not  go  down   to   Foyle   at  Easter.     He 


288  MANY  JUNES 

did  not  leave  Wyse  Hall  for  a  night  until  he  went 
abroad  for  a  month  at  the  beginning  of  June,  leaving 
Mabilia  to  pay  another  visit  to  her  mother,  and  display 
herself  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  Earl's  Court.  There- 
after he  always  went  abroad  regularly  at  the  beginning 
of  June,  alone,  and  sometimes  again,  later  in  the  year, 
when  Mabilia  would  occasionally  accompany  him.  But 
as  the  years  went  on,  Mabilia  developed  into  something 
of  an  invalid,  and  kept  more  and  more  to  her  own 
rooms,  where  she  received  the  visits  of  the  vicar  and  a 
few  of  her  country  neighbours,  embroidered  altar 
cloths  and  vestments,  and  read  novels  and  devotional 
poetry. 

Hugh,  in  his  big  house,  was  as  lonely  as  he  had  been 
in  his  two  rooms  at  Earl's  Court.  His  life  was  as  busy 
as  he  could  make  it.  He  was  unremitting  in  the  busi- 
ness of  his  estate,  and  attended  regularly  to  his  duties 
as  a  magistrate.  He  made  few  friends  among  his 
fellow-landowners,  but  he  was  treated  as  a  man  of 
weight  and  judgment,  and  five  years  after  his  suc- 
cession he  was  made  Chairman  of  Quarter  Sessions.  A 
year  or  two  later  he  was  asked  to  stand  for  Parliament, 
as  member  for  the  division,  but  refused.  In  the  autumn 
and  winter  he  shot  over  his  own  land  and  sometimes 
over  that  of  his  neighbours.  In  the  summer  he  paid 
some  attention  to  his  garden.  Once  or  twice  a  month 
he  and  Mabilia,  when  she  was  not  too  unwell  to  accom- 
pany him,  which  was  seldom,  dined  out  at  some  big 
neighbouring  house,  and  every  now  and  again  they  gave 
a  dinner  in  return,  when  they  used  the  raftered  ban- 


POSSESSIONS  289 

queting  hall,  with  its  stone  pavement,  great  open  fire- 
place and  carved  and  gilded  minstrels'  gallery,  and  the 
Lelacheur  plate  was  displayed  on  table  and  buffet.  In 
the  evening  he  sat  in  the  long  library,  set  in  hand  a 
catalogue  of  its  contents,  and  began  to  compile  a  his- 
tory of  his  family,  for  which  there  was  abundant  ma- 
terial. He  had  the  reputation  among  his  tenants  of  a 
strict  landlord,  but  there  were  stories  of  unexpected 
kindness,  and  village  mothers  defended  him  because  he 
was  known  to  notice  their  children. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

MEMORIES 

TEN  years  went  by,  and  the  month  of  June  came  round 
again.  The  meadows  were  once  more  deep  in  grass  and 
flowers,  and  the  profusion  of  midsummer  was  rioting 
over  the  rich  level  country  around  Wyse  Hall.  Mabilia 
was  ill,  and  thought  herself  dangerously  so.  A  doctor 
was  in  daily  attendance,  and  two  nurses  waited  on  her 
querulous  whims.  She  had  so  reproached  her  husband 
with  his  intention  of  leaving  her  in  her  dangerous  state 
that  he  had  given  up  his  yearly  Continental  journey 
and  stayed  home.  Always  hitherto  he  had  spent  the 
month  of  June  out  of  England.  He  sat  with  her  for 
half-an-hour  in  the  morning  and  half-an-hour  in  the 
afternoon,  during  which  she  often  complained  of  the 
misery  and  dulness  of  her  life,  and  did  not  refrain  from 
accusing  him  of  spoiling  it.  He  was  patient  with  her 
and  silent  under  her  upbraidings ;  and  gentle,  if  he  was 
able  to  do  anything  to  relieve  her  restlessness.  The  doc- 
tor had  told  him  that  she  was  not  seriously  ill. 

One  afternoon  Hugh  left  his  wife's  room  and  went 
out  into  the  park.  There  was  a  light  breeze  which 
moved  fleecy  clouds  across  the  soft  blue  of  the  sky.  The 
bracken  was  pushing  up  bold  croziers,  the  beeches  wore 
their  dress  of  tenderest  green,  the  rabbits  ran  across 
the  grass  and  the  sandy  ridges.  His  feet  led  him  to  that 

290 


MEMORIES 

part  of  the  park  which  was  bounded  by  the  river,  and 
when  he  came  out  into  the  fields  he  still  continued  to  fol- 
low its  windings  by  a  path  which  he  had  not  trodden  for 
the  ten  years  during  which  he  had  lived  with  Mabilia 
at  Wyse  Hall. 

Th.  lines  on  his  face  were  deeper,  and  his  hair  was 
greyer.  B'jt  he  still  walked  with  something  of  his  old 
step;  his  body  was  thin,  and  improved  in  condition  by 
years  of  a  fairly  active  and  open-air  life.  He  was  not 
noticeably  different  from  the  man  who  had  trodden  that 
path  so  lightly  ten  years  before. 

He  was  hardly,  as  yet,  aware  of  where  his  steps  were 
leading  him.  Pie  had  controlled  his  thoughts  so  that 
they  seldom  now  tempted  him  to  look  back  upon  past 
years.  He  had  set  a  bound,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  t>oor 
contentment  that  remained  to  him  forbidden  them  to" 
wander. 

He  was  thinking  of  Mabilia,  and  of  whether  there  was 
any  chance  of  increasing  her  happiness  in  the  dull  life 
she  had  chosen  for  herself.  She  had  icng  since  had 
freedom  to  go  where  she  would,  and  he  had  even  opened 
his  house  in  London  for  her,  and  allowed  her  to  enter- 
tain her  acquaintances  there.  But  she  had  tired  of  that, 
as  well  as  of  the  Continental  sojourns  that  she  had  next 
asked  for,  and  for  the  last  two  years  she  had  lived  in 
her  own  rooms  in  Wyse  Hall,  and  not  for  months  left 
them,  even  to  go  into  the  garden.  Had  her  marriage 
brought  her  anything  at  all  that  she  really  wanted? 
Would  it  not  have  been  far  better  for  her  own  sake  if 
he  had  refused  to  carry  it  through? 


292  MANY  JUNES 

For  his  own,  there  was  only  one  answer.  He  had 
never  known  a  moment's  happiness  or  community  of 
interest  with  her.  They  were  bound  together  for  life, 
but  in  sympathy  as  the  poles  asunder.  The  hope  with 
which  he  had  first  buoyed  himself  up  had  died,  of  chil- 
dren to  play  about  the  rooms  of  his  house,  or  comfort 
him  with  their  dependence  upon  his  love. 

Some  subtle  influence  of  memory  had  impelled  him,  on 
this  radiant  day  of  June,  to  retrace  steps  both  of  mind 
and  body.  He  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  the  never-to-be- 
forgotten  summer  fields  around  him,  and  the  slow- 
moving  flower-margined  river;  and  his  past  life  flowed 
back  upon  him  with  the  strength  and  freshness  of  a  day- 
old  experience.  He  gave  his  thoughts  the  rein,  and 
allowed  them  to  take  him  where  they  would. 

What  had  his  life  been  since  the  door  had  shut  on  his 
brief  dream  of  happiness?  He  had  never  willingly  sur- 
veyed it  as  a  whole.  He  had  gone  on  from  day  to  day, 
trying  to  forget,  trying  as  far  as  he  could  to  enjoy 
the  good  things  of  the  world  which  fate  had  awarded 
him  with  so  lavish  a  hand.  The  power  of  gratifying 
secondary  desires  might  have  brought  him  enough  to  be 
grateful  for,  if  he  had  come  to  them  from  where  he  stood 
before  the  days  of  his  dream.  But  there  was  the  bar- 
rier. It  was  as  if  a  veil  through  which  he  had  hitherto 
looked  upon  the  beauties  of  the  world,  without  knowing 
that  his  vision  was  darkened  by  it,  had  suddenly  been 
drawn  aside  and  revealed  them  in  unimagined  radiance. 
The  veil  had  fallen  again,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  lifted, 
and  its  folds  were  thicker  than  before. 


MEMORIES  293 

He  came  out  on  the  bank  of  the  mill-stream,  and 
under  the  boughs  of  the  great  chestnut,  older  by  ten 
years  than  when  its  leaves  had  last  shaded  him.  It  was 
all  just  the  same.  The  pigeons  cooed  on  the  red  roofs; 
the  millwheel  droned  its  lazy  song;  the  poplars  and  the 
aspens  quivered  in  the  summer  breeze;  across  the  pool 
the  orchard  grasses  stood  thick  under  gnarled  mossy 
trees ;  and  there  by  the  wooden  staging  under  the  bridge 
was  moored  a  punt,  leaky  and  shabby  with  age. 

It  all  came  back  to  him  in  a  flash,  the  joy  and  the 
hidden  but  never  buried  sorrow.  He  threw  himself  on 
the  grass  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  to  shut  out  the 
sights  and  sounds  that  were  all  too  familiar.  Not  one 
tone  of  her  voice  or  turn  of  her  head  but  came  back 
to  him.  He  lay  for  a  long  time  stabbing  his  mind  with 
thoughts  intolerably  sweet.  His  body  shook  as  the 
waves  of  memory  flowed  over  him. 

His  passion  spent  itself.  He  sat  on  the  grass,  on  the 
very  spot  where  she  had  sat  by  him  on  the  day  when  he 
first  saw  and  loved  her.  His  sorrow  ached  dumbly  at  the 
back  of  his  mind,  and  his  tired  thoughts  roamed  idly 
over  detached  and  mostly  unimportant  episodes  of  his 
life. 

It  was  summer  time  at  Foyle.  Anne  had  come  into 
his  room  at  dawn,  and  roused  him.  Together  they  had 
crept  out  of  the  house,  and  were  standing  on  the  edge 
of  the  little  lake.  It  had  rained  in  the  night  and  the 
smell  of  the  soil  was  sweet. 

Again,  it  was  winter,  and  they  were  reading  together 
out  of  one  book,  both  packed  in  great  shabby  easy- 


294  MANY   JUNES 

chair  by  the  schoolroom  fire.  The  coal  clinked  in  the 
grate.  Anne  had  come  to  the  end  of  a  page  and  was 
ready  to  turn  over.  He  held  it  with  his  finger  until  he 
had  finished.  Every  now  and  again  Anne  put  up  her 
hand  to  brush  the  hair  from  her  face,  and  the  scent  of 
it  came  to  him. 

They  were  on  the  sea  with  their  father,  who  was  steer- 
ing, with  Dunster  at  the  sheets.  The  wind  had  sprung 
up  suddenly,  and  the  salt  spray  was  wet  on  his  cheeks 
and  in  a  minute  sparkling  drops  on  Anne's  blue  jersey. 
They  were  both  a  little  frightened,  but  the  Admiral  held 
on  with  a  rugged  steadfast  face.  There  was  nothing 
to  fear  while  they  were  in  his  care. 

He  was  trying  to  paint  a  cornfield  on  the  slopes 
above  the  Manor,  the  shocks  standing  in  serried  rows 
with  purple  shadows,  the  grey  down  and  the  sky  beyond. 
It  was  time  to  go  home,  but  still  he  lingered,  for  he 
dreaded  the  lonely  house.  Anne  had  left  him,  the  Ad- 
miral and  Dunster  were  in  London.  The  country  was 
desolate  under  the  hot  August  sun. 

It  was  a  chilly  damp  October  evening.  He  was  going 
through  the  gateway  into  the  Great  Court  at  Trinity. 
Lights  from  the  Hall  and  the  Master's  Lodge  shone 
warmly.  The  organ  was  booming  in  the  Chapel.  Two 
men  in  blue  gowns  came  towards  him  laughing. 

He  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire  in  his  father's 
rooms  in  London,  reading  "  The  Moonstone."  The  Ad- 
miral, with  a  rug  across  his  knees,  sat  near  him  with 
his  hands  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  a  white  stubble  on 
his  chin. 


MEMORIES  295 

He  was  standing  on  the  rung  of  a  high  stool,  lifting  a 
heavy  ledger  from  the  brass  rails  on  a  level  with  his 
head,  carefully,  so  that  it  should  not  fall  with  a  thud  on 
his  desk. 

He  was  lunching  with  Kynaston  at  a  confectioner's 
shop,  both  of  them  eating  crisp  rolls  and  drinking  cof- 
fee from  thick  cups  at  a  little  marble-topped  table. 

He  was  in  his  snug  room  at  Mrs.  Millett's  house, 
reading  a  letter  from  Anne,  sitting  at  the  table  covered 
with  a  red  cloth  under  a  glaring  gas  jet.  She  had  writ- 
ten of  the  brilliant  sunshine,  the  hot  plains,  the  verandah 
on  which  she  was  sitting  in  the  shade,  looking  into  a 
garden  bright  with  flowers.  Dunster  was  on  the  sea, 
getting  closer  to  her  every  hour. 

He  was  at  Foyle  again.  It  was  little  Anne,  the  child, 
now  sitting  on  his  knee  in  the  big  schoolroom  chair  by 
the  open  window.  Her  hair  had  been  brushed  and  her 
hands  washed  for  a  meal,  and  she  wore  a  clean  starched 
pinafore  that  fell  in  stiff  folds.  A  gong  sounded  and 
they  went  downstairs  together,  her  hand  in  his. 

He  was  leaning  over  her  bed,  Anne  at  his  side  hold- 
ing a  shaded  candle,  and  speaking  in  whispers.  Her 
dark  hair  was  spread  over  the  pillow,  one  hand  was 
under  her  cheek,  the  other  lay  on  the  coverlet.  Her 
lashes  quivered,  and  Anne  said,  "  Hush !  "  Her  dark 
eyes  slowly  opened,  were  wide  for  a  moment,  and  then 
they  closed  again ;  there  was  a  smile  on  her  lips.  Anne 
touched  the  bedclothes,  and  they  crept  softly  out  of 
the  room. 

He  stirred  where  he  sat,  and  a  sound  of  pain  broke 


296  MANY   JUNES 

from  his  lips,  as  this  memory  came  to  him,  more  vivid 
than  the  rest.  Not  for  years  had  he  allowed  himself  to 
dwell  upon  what  he  had  lost.  He  had  thought  that  by 
keeping  his  mind  closed  against  it  he  might  in  time  be 
able  to  think  of  the  happiness  of  his  early  years,  and 
of  those  whom  he  had  loved,  with  a  tender  regret,  and 
gain  solace  from  his  thoughts,  as  he  had  done  before 
his  marriage.  But  ten  years  had  gone  by,  and  the  sense 
of  loss  was  as  poignant  as  ever. 

And  yet  there  was  a  difference.  He  knew  instinc- 
tively that  the  time  had  come  for  him  to  face  the  trouble 
that  was  wrecking  his  life,  to  make  up  his  spiritual 
account,  and  to  leave  the  spot  to  which  he  had  been 
drawn  again,  as  it  seemed  by  something  outside  him- 
self, with  some  clear  idea  as  to  where  he  stood,  towards 
himself  and  towards  others. 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  across  the  water  to 
the  deep-grassed  orchard  that  bounded  the  pool,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  he  had  lost  her  threw  open  the 
gates  of  his  mind  for  Margaret's  entrance  there,  con- 
juring up  her  figure  as  he  had  seen  it  under  the  gnarled 
boughs  of  the  apple  trees,  when  after  crossing  the  water 
she  had  come  back  to  be  nearer  to  him  again  before  he 
left  her.  And,  as  he  did  so,  he  found  that  her  image 
was  supportable,  that  it  had  even  faded  a  little.  The 
pang  which  he  had  invited  was  less  sharp  than  the  pain 
of  his  recent  thoughts,  and  as  he  renewed  it,  by  grasp- 
ing out  at  all  the  sweet  memories  of  her  that  he  had  so 
long  avoided,  its  recurrent  bitterness  became  always 
less ;  and  presently  the  tender  regret  which  he  had 


MEMORIES  297 

hoped  for  took  the  place  of  the  pain,  and  the  familiar 
scene  soothed  and  comforted  him,  suffused  once  more 
with  the  light  and  form  and  colour  of  its  summer 
beauty. 

It  was  almost  happiness  to  be  able  to  think  of  her 
like  this.  She  had  gone  out  of  his  life  as  completely  as 
those  others  whom  he  had  loved  had  gone  out  of  it. 
They  were  dead,  and  she  was  alive,  but  he  had  no  ex- 
pectation of  seeing  her  again,  nor  had  he  ever  wished  it. 
A  short  time  after  her  marriage  her  grandfather  had 
left  the  mill,  and  shortly  after  that  Gillett  had  told 
him  that  it  was  open  to  him  to  buy  it,  on  condition  that 
the  man  who  had  worked  it  should  be  continued  as  its 
tenant.  This  man  lived  there  still,  alone;  and  the  mill 
was  as  much  cut  off  from  the  social  life  of  the  village 
as  it  had  ever  been.  The  Pastons  were  forgotten  in 
Wyse. 

Hugh  found  himself  thinking  of  her,  without  any  bit- 
terness or  shrinking,  as  she  would  be  now.  Had  she 
been  happier  than  he  in  the  marriage  to  which  she  had 
given  herself,  perhaps  as  a  weakness  of  her  woman's 
nature,  craving  protection  and  dependence,  perhaps  out 
of  gratitude,  perhaps  to  put  a  barrier  between  herself 
and  her  frustrated  happiness?  Had  she  had  children? 
Was  her  husband,  who  had  been  old  when  she  married 
him,  still  alive?  He  might  at  least  find  that  out,  from 
some  work  of  clerical  reference.  But  otherwise  he  had 
HO  desire  to  make  inquiries  about  her.  She  would  be  a 
woman  now,  in  her  sweet  maturity,  more  to  be  loved 
than  ever  if  she  had  come  to  it  by  his  side  and  he 


298  MANY   JUNES 

could  have  watched  the  slow  change  in  her,  finding 
always  something  new  to  love  and  to  rest  himself  upon. 
But  their  ways  had  lain  apart,  and  he  had  forbidden 
himself  to  think  of  what  might  have  been.  The  image 
in  his  mind  now  was  wholly  that  of  the  girl  she  had  been, 
and  however  her  sweetness  had  developed  she  was  that 
no  longer. 

The  past  was  over  and  done  with.  He  could  dwell  on 
it  now  in  memory  as  something  ineffably  sweet,  and 
cherish  it  in  his  mind  without  pain.  The  happiness 
that  might  have  sprung  from  it  was  not  his  even  to 
imagine.  He  had  schooled  himself  so  far  as  no  longer 
to  desire  it. 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  solacing  himself  with  the  free- 
dom of  spirit  that  had  come  to  him  because  at  last  he 
had  faced  his  trouble.  But  he  had  not  yet  faced  the 
whole  of  it.  If  the  loss  of  Margaret,  whom  he  had  loved, 
was  no  longer  to  be  a  burden  upon  his  life,  there  was 
still  his  life  to  be  faced  to  the  end  with  Mabilia,  whom 
he  had  never  loved.  Was  there  no  way  of  lightening 
that  burden  for  himself — and  for  her? 

Yes,  for  her.  Some  memory  of  Margaret — some 
word  or  phrase  she  had  used  about  trusting  all  her 
happiness  to  him — unexpectedly  brought  him  to  this 
testing-point.  Whatever  enlightenment  had  come  to 
him  concerning  Mabilia's  desires  in  marriage,  he  had 
given  her  precious  little  chance  of  building  upon  any 
others.  If  it  was  true  that  love  had  had  very  little 
to  do  with  her  acceptance  of  him,  it  was  yet 
no  very  great  crime  on  her  part  to  have  ex- 


MEMORIES  299 

pected  the  sort  of  advantage  from  marriage  that  went 
most  with  the  ideas  of  life  in  which  she  had  been  brought 
up.  He  had  visited  that  discovery  upon  her  harshly, 
even  before  he  had  known  Margaret,  in  withdrawing 
himself  in  spirit  from  her;  but  they  might  have  come 
together  in  the  way  he  had  pictured  to  himself,  if  he 
had  made  allowances.  Afterwards  he  had  held  her 
coldly,  and  still  more  harshly,  at  arm's  length,  and 
visited  upon  her  the  wrecking  of  his  own  happiness, 
which  was  yet  no  fault  of  hers.  He  had  given  her  what 
he  had  told  himself  she  wanted  from  him,  and  with- 
held everything  else.  But  now,  what  he  had  given  her 
— so  much  more  than  she  could  have  expected — was  of 
no  more  use  to  her  in  bringing  happiness  than  it  was  to 
him.  How  would  it  have  been  if  he  had  given  her  some- 
thing else? 

Love?  That  had  never  been  his  to  give  her,  and  he 
had  not  asked,  or  even  desired  it  from  her.  Then  what 
had  he  offered  her,  and  what  had  he  expected  in  return? 

The  hope  of  children  of  his  own  had  not  been  quite 
all  that  had  impelled  him  towards  marriage.  They 
would  have  been  her  children  as  well  as  his,  if  the  gift 
had  been  vouchsafed.  Companionship  and  growing  sym- 
pathy were  to  have  sweetened  his  solitary  life ;  he  had 
thought  that  he  might  get  them  from  her,  and  he  had 
had  some  reason  for  his  belief.  In  their  walks  together 
over  the  high  moors  and  by  the  sea,  in  the  first  dawn- 
ings  of  their  friendship,  surely  there  had  been  some- 
thing to  build  on,  some  foundation  that  had  not  been 
wholly  destroyed  by  his  discovery  that  she  was  not  quite 


300  MANY   JUNES 

what  he  had  thought  her!  Was  he  himself,  towards 
her,  what  she  had  thought  him  in  those  early  days? 
Would  she  have  married  him,  even,  if  she  had  known  all 
the  truth  about  him? 

The  sun  declined,  and  all  the  sweetness  of  the  summer 
evening  hung  about  the  retired  and  lovely  place,  which 
he  had  shunned  as  if  it  were  a  dark  spot  in  all  the  beauty 
that  surrounded  his  home.  Now  it  was  consecrated 
afresh  to  him.  The  spirit  of  love  which  had  infused 
its  bright  and  gentle  charm  had  descended  upon  him 
Again.  The  love  had  been,  and  remained  as  a  guiding 
influence.  All  those  upon  whom  he  had  expended  love 
throughout  his  life  had  been  taken  from  him;  it  was 
right  to  keep  them  in  tender  remembrance,  but  not  right 
to  shut  up  in  his  own  breast  his  power  of  loving,  and 
let  it  feed  only  upon  memories.  He  saw  that  now,  at 
the  end  of  his  long  self-communing.  The  strong  and 
tender  love  that  he  had  felt  for  his  sister,  for  her  child, 
and  for  Margaret,  should  have  opened  his  heart  to  all 
mankind,  and  not  closed  it  against  every  emotion  that 
would  have  taken  him  out  of  himself.  There  are  many 
kinds  and  degrees  of  love,  but  all  spring  from  the  same 
divine  source.  His  love  for  Margaret  had  been  pure 
and  uplifting,  but  he  had  turned  it  into  a  secret  shame. 
Even  his  love  for  the  dead  child  he  had  hugged 
jealously  to  himself.  Surely  he  might  have  let  Mabilia 
into  that ! 

He  knew  what  he  had  to  do  now,  as  he  walked  slowly 
home  by  the  riverside,  through  the  blossoming  fields, 
and  wondered  whether  after  all  it  was  too  late  to  do  it. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

BY    THE    WINDOW 

THE  room  in  which  Mabilia  spent  all  her  days,  hug- 
ging her  ailments  and  her  disappointments,  had  an  out- 
look on  to  the  most  beautiful  of  the  gardens  by  which 
the  house  was  surrounded.  She  was  perhaps  least  dis- 
contented when  the  summer  days  allowed  her  to  lie  on 
her  sofa  by  the  open  window  and  steep  herself  in  the 
peace  and  beauty  of  it. 

She  lay  there  on  this  evening,  later  than  her  wont, 
and  watched  the  light  fade  over  the  lawns  and  trees. 
Hugh  had  sent  her  a  message  to  say  that  he  was  coming 
to  her  after  dinner,  if  she  felt  well  enough  to  talk  to 
him.  She  did  not  want  to  talk  to  him,  but  thought 
that  it  would  be  less  tiresome  to  do  so  if  she  could  look 
out  upon  the  scene  that  she  .loved,  and  watch  the  stars 
come  out  in  the  sky. 

It  was  almost  dark  in  the  great  room  when  Hugh 
came  to  her.  He  could  see  only  the  squares  of  light 
in  the  high  windows  as  he  shut  the  door,  and  her  face 
and  the  hand  that  lay  on  her  coverlet  glimmering  in 
the  dusk.  The  chair  in  which  he  sat  when  he  was  with 
her  was  set  by  the  head  of  the  sofa,  facing  the  window. 
She  could  not  see  his  face  without  altering  her  position. 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  while  she  lay  quite  still 
and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

301 


302  MANY  JUNES 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  in  a  low  con- 
strained voice ;  "  something  you  ought  to  have  known 
long  ago." 

She  did  not  stir,  but  there  was  a  sense  of  awakened 
attention,  almost  of  shock,  as  again  she  waited. 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  almost  monotonous.  "  When  I 
came  down  here  first,"  he  said,  "  ten  years  ago,  I  met 
Margaret  Paston,  who  lived  at  the  mill  with  her  grand- 
father. I  fell  in  love  with  her.  I  would  have  married 
her,  but  when  she  found  out  that  I  was  engaged  to 
marry  you,  she  wouldn't.  I  never  saw  her  again,  and, 
as  you  know,  she  married  herself  and  went  away  soon 
after  we  came  to  live  here.  It  was  all  ended — ended  for 
ever — when  I  went  back  to  London;  and  soon  after- 
wards we  were  married." 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  but  not  long  enough  for 
Mabilia  to  have  said  anything,  if  she  had  wished  to  do 
so.  He  went  on  again,  but  in  a  voice  a  little  more  hur- 
ried, and  with  more  life  in  it. 

"  It  was  ended,  that  is,  for  any  communication  of 
any  sort  between  her  and  me.  I  know  nothing  about 
her  life  since  she  went  away  from  here.  I  have  not 
heard  her  name  mentioned  for  years.  Until  this  after- 
noon I  have  never  been  to  the  mill,  where  we  first  met, 
and  loved  each  other." 

He  came  to  a  sudden  stop,  though  this  had  seemed 
only  the  introduction  to  something  he  had  meant  to 
say. 

"  She  loved  you?  "  Mabilia  asked  in  a  colourless  voice. 

"  Yes." 


BY   THE   WINDOW  303 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Both  of  them  were  abso- 
lutely still — so  still  that  the  fluttering  of  a  moth  against 
the  half-shut  window  pane  sounded  like  the  fluttering 
of  a  bird. 

"  That  explains  many  things,"  said  Mabilia,  in  the 
same  detached  voice  as  before.  "  I  wish  you  had  mar- 
ried her  and  not  me." 

Again  a  long  silence ;  and  then  Mabilia  said :  "  You 
had  no  right  to  marry  me  if  you  loved  somebody  else. 
.  .  .  Or  at  least  you  ought  to  have  told  me." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  once.  "  I  ought  to  have  told  you. 
It  has  taken  me  ten  years  to  see  that.  I  saw  it  very 
plainly  this  afternoon.  .  .  .  And  now  I  have  told 

you." 

She  stirred  on  her  couch,  and  again  there  was  a  long 
silence,  until  he  saw  her  hand  move,  and  knew  that  she 
was  crying. 

Still  he  sat  without  speech.  His  confession  seemed  to 
have  emptied  his  mind  of  all  emotion.  He  was  faintly 
surprised  that  she  should  take  it  in  this  way,  for  he  had 
expected  that  she  would  be  bitter  and  scandalized;  but 
her  tears  did  not  move  him  to  sympathy  with  her. 

She  dried  her  eyes.  "  I  don't  know  why  you've  told 
me  this  now,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  it  was  to  put  your- 
self right  with  your  conscience.  I  don't  want  to  sneer 
at  that ;  I  think  it  is  a  good  thing  to  do.  You've  been 
horribly  cruel  to  me,  though  I  suppose  everybody  who 
knows  us  would  say  that  you  were  a  model  husband,  and 
all  the  unhappiness  of  our  married  life  has  been  my 
fault." 


304  MANY   JUNES 

He  had  admitted  to  himself  that  he  had  been  cruel 
to  her,  but  the  accusation  struck  at  him  none  the 
less. 

"  I  have  sometimes  reproached  myself  with  the  un- 
happiness,"  she  went  on.  "  I  have  wondered  what  I 
ought  to  do,  for  I  have  a  conscience  too,  and  I  try 
to  follow  it.  Now  I  know  that  I  could  have  done  noth- 
ing. You  shut  yourself  up  against  me  before  we  were 
married,  and,  whatever  I  might  have  tried  to  be  to  you, 
you  would  have  repulsed  me.  You  have  been  thinking 
of  this  other  woman  all  the  time — all  these  years. 
You're  thinking  of  her  still.  You  say  you  know  noth- 
ing about  her  now ;  but  I  do,  as  it  happens.  Her  hus- 
band died  some  years  ago.  If  I  were  to  die,  there  would 
be  nothing  to  prevent  your  marrying  her.  It's  the  best 
thing  I  can  do.  I've  nothing  to  live  for." 

She  broke  into  sobs,  but  controlled  herself  quickly. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  make  myself  ill,"  she  said.  "  But  I 
wish  you'd  go  away,  now  you've  told  me.  There  doesn't 
seem  to  be  anything  more  to  say." 

"  Yes,  I  think  there  is,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Much  of 
what  you  say  is  true,  and  I  have  already  said  it  to  my- 
self. It  is  because  of  that  that  I  have  come  to  you. 
What  happened  ten  years  ago  was  something  outside  of 
myself,  that  came  to  me  without  any  exercise  of  will  or 
intention  of  mine.  I'm  not  sure  that  it  was  even 
wrong;  but  if  it  was  I  couldn't  help  myself.  Where 
I  have  been  wrong  is  in  not  facing  it.  From  the  time 
I  turned  away  from  her.  to  take  what  I  thought  was 
the  right  course,  I  have  shut  my  mind  as  far  as  I  could 


BY   THE   WINDOW  305 

to  memories  of  her.  Now  at  last  I  have  opened  it,  and 
I  find  that  the  love  itself  is  only  a  memory.  I  couldn't 
have  told  you  anything  if  I  were  still  cherishing  it.  I 
have  told  you  because  it  has  been  between  us  all  these 
years,  and  now  it  is  cleared  away." 

"  You  have  found  that  you  don't  love  her  any  more  ?  " 
She  asked  the  question  in  a  tone  almost  of  curiosity. 

"  It  isn't  quite  like  that,"  he  said,  after  a  pause ;  and 
hesitated  again  before  he  went  on :  "I  hope  you  will 
accept  it  when  I  say  that  my  purpose  in  coming  to  you 
is  not,  as  you  said  just  now,  to  put  myself  right  with 
my  conscience ;  it  is  to  put  myself  right,  as  far  as  that  is 
possible,  with  you.  If  I  have  been  cruel  to  you,  as  you 
say  I  have,  I  ask  your  forgiveness.  I  know,  at  least, 
that  the  unhappiness  to  which  the  lives  of  both  of  us 
have  been  brought  has  been  my  fault.  I  see  that  now; 
and  if  one  sees  the  wrong  in  oneself  and  turns  away  from 
it  .  .  .it  ought  not  to  be  beyond  mending." 

"  I  can't  imagine  your  falling  in  love,"  she  said,  as 
if  she  had  not  heard  this.  "  It's  an  extraordinary 
story  altogether.  And  you  say  that  she  refused  to 
marry  you,  when  she  knew  about  me.  Did  she  know 
who  you  were?  But  of  course  she  did.  Oh,  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  make  a  grievance  of  it,  Hugh.  I  suppose  it 
happens  like  that,  to  men.  Of  course  I  knew  you  didn't 
love  me  when  you  asked  me  to  marry  you.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  loved  you  or  not.  I  hardly  remember. 
I  suppose  I  didn't ;  but  I  know  if  you'd  treated  me  well 
I  might  have  done  so.  You  never  gave  me  a  chance.  At 
any  rate  you  didn't  want  it.  I  remember  telling  mother 


306  MANY   JUNES 

once  that  I  believed  you  would  hate  it  more  than  any- 
thing if  I  did." 

Again  she  burst  into  sobs,  and  this  time  he  did  feel 
sympathy  with  her,  though  it  was  the  faintest  of  emo- 
tions. "  I'm  sorry,"  he  said ;  "  sorry  for  everything, 
Mabilia.  '  I've  had  a  disappointed  life,  and  I've  drawn 
you  into  it.  I've  sacrificed  you  to  my  regrets  and  frus- 
trated hopes.  It  was  very  wrong.  Is  it  too  late  to  put 
some  of  it  right,  and  make  the  best  of  the  years  that  are 
left  to  us?  We're  hardly  past  our  youth  yet.  We 
have  a  great  deal  that  most  people  would  think  the  chief 
thing  to  bring  happiness.  I've  lived  almost  entirely  for 
myself  for  years  past — perhaps  all  my  life;  though  at 
first  I  didn't  love  myself  more  than  I  loved  others." 

"  Oh,  I've  lived  for  myself  too,"  she  said.  "  There's 
been  nobody  else  to  live  for.  You  needn't  take  all  the 
blame  to  yourself.  There's  one  thing,  though,  that  you 
might  take  into  consideration  about  me.  If  I  had 
wanted  nothing  but  wealth  and  position  and  the  sort  of 
life  that  comes  from  them  to  make  me  happy,  I  shouldn't 
be  living  as  I  am  now,  almost  always  alone." 

He  considered  this  in  his  mind.  It  was  a  new  light 
to  him  on  her  character.  It  was  true  that  she  might 
have  had  everything  that  he  had  thought  of  her  as 
wanting  in  life,  and  that  she  had  tried  most  of  it,  and 
got  tired  of  it  all. 

"  What  is  it  then  that  you  do  want?  "  he  asked,  with 
gentleness. 

"Oh,  how  do  I  know?"  she  said,  with  a  gesture  of 
her  hands.  "  It's  so  long  since  I  thought  of  you  as 


BY   THE   WINDOW  307 

being  willing  to  give  me  anything  beyond  what  you 
felt  yourself  obliged  to  give  me.  But  whether  I  loved 
you  or  not,  before  you  could  have  given  me  very  much, 
it  was  your  companionship  that  attracted  me.  There 
wasn't  much  else  to  be  gained  then  from  marrying 
you." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  soft  night  air,  sweet 
with  all  the  scents  of  the  blossoming  earth,  stole  in  on 
them,  the  breathing  stillness  wrapped  them  round.  It 
was  a  time  and  a  place  that  would  have  made  for  the 
tenderest  happiness  if  their  hearts  had  been  in  accord 
with  one  another.  But  heaviness  was  upon  them  with 
all  the  weight  of  their  dead  hopes  and  desires.  Was 
there  anywhere  a  gleam  of  spiritual  light? 

Hugh  raised  his  eyes  to  the  stars,  which  now  shone 
brightly  in  the  dusky  canopy  of  night.  "  Isn't  it  pos- 
sible to  begin  again  ?  "  he  said — "  to  begin  again  where 
I  made  the  mistake  of  not  trusting  you?  We  had  some- 
thing in  common  before  then." 

"  What  do  you  mean — that  you  made  a  mistake 
about  me  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  note  of  surprise  in  her 
voice. 

"  Wasn't  it  when  I  found  that  you  didn't  want  to 
cut  yourself  off  from  the  sort  of  life  that  you  had  lived 
with  your  mother?  Wouldn't  you,  after  all,  have  been 
ready  to  live  ?  quieter  life  with  me,  if  I  had  pressed 
you,  and  been  patient  with  you?  " 

"  Oh,  Hugh  !  "  she  said.  "  If  you  have  thought  about 
me  like  that!" 

She  broke  down  and  cried  again,  and  this  time  his 


308  MANY  JUNES 

sympathy  with  her  tears  was  real.  He  put  out  his 
hand,  and  she  took  it  and  pressed  it.  "  I  was  sorry 
for  that  almost  immediately,"  she  said.  "  I  told  mother 
so.  I  believe  it  would  have  been  quite  different  if  I 
hadn't  disappointed  you  then.  If  you've  remembered 
that,  and  seen  the  truth,  you  must  know  that  there  is 
something  in  me  that  you  might  have  cared  for." 

He  was  moved  by  this — to  compunction  for  his  hard 
impatience  with  her,  and  pity  for  her  weakness.  Her 
hand  still  lay  in  his,  and  she  let  it  lie  there,  as  if 
she  drew  something  from  his  hold  of  it.  "  If  you  hadn't 
shut  me  out !  "  she  said.  "  I  know  how  much  you  loved 
your  sister,  and  the  little  child  that  died.  That  has 
always  parted  us,  but  it  might  have  brought  us  to- 
gether. I  suppose  you  have  always  wanted  love. 
What  you've  told  me  tonight — I  don't  think  it  would 
have  happened  if  you  hadn't  already  withdrawn  your- 
self from  me.  I  won't  make  a  grievance  of  it,  Hugh. 
It  sha'n't  come  between  us,  if  you  really  want  us  to 
come  together  again  at  last.  No,  I'm  sure  that  your 
telling  me  about  it  means  that  you  do.  It  was  years 
ago.  I'm  not  even  jealous  of  her.  I  never  had  that 
to  give  you,  and  we  need  not  pretend  that  we're  going 
to  fall  in  love  with  one  another  now,  after  missing  the 
way  so  badly  at  first,  and  for  so  long.  But  we  ought 
to  be  friends.  We've  never  even  been  that,  you  know, 
since  the  very  first.  Yes,  I  do  want  it,  Hugh.  Only  you 
mustn't  keep  me  out  any  more.  You  must  let  me  into 
something  that  you  feel.  I  don't  think  it's  beyond  me 
to  feel  something  of  it  with  you." 


BY   THE   WINDOW  309 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  where  he  stood  look- 
ing out  on  to  the  beauty  of  the  starlit  garden. 

"  On  a  night  like  this,"  he  said  slowly,  "  Anne  and 
I  once  sat  in  the  garden  at  Foyle,  and  wondered  what 
life  was  going  to  bring  us.  We  felt  the  beauty  of  the 
world  as  we  had  never  felt  it  before.  We  thought  we 
could  never  be  happier.  Afterwards  she  had  great  hap- 
piness, and  great  sorrow,  and  then  she  died.  And  the 
child  I  loved  so  much — she  felt  the  beauty  of  the  world 
too,  but  she  was  taken  away  from  it.  What  does  it  all 
mean?  In  the  light  of  love  it  seems  to  mean  so  much, 
without  it  so  little." 

He  turned  towards  her.  "  It  means  more  to  me  to- 
night than  it  has  for  years,"  he  said.  "  Some  of  the 
mists  have  cleared  away  from  it." 

"  I  feel  it  too,"  she  said  quietly.  "  It  has  been  a 
consolation  to  me  to  lie  here,  while  I  have  been  ill,  and 
to  drink  it  in.  It's  something  that  we  have  in  common, 
Hugh.  It  hasn't  been  so  much  to  me  as  it  has  to  you. 
I  have  never  known  great  happiness,  or  great  sorrow, 
only  great  discontent.  If  you're  going  to  be  kind  to  me, 
and  think  of  me  a  little  .  .  .  if  I  get  better  ..." 

She  broke  off  and  wept  again.  Her  nurse  came  in, 
with  protests  at  her  keeping  up  so  late,  and,  when  she 
saw  her  tears,  showed  some  indignation  against  Hugh, 
who  took  it  quietly  enough.  He  knew  that  Mabilia 
would  not  suffer  harm  from  her  tears. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE   TIME  AND   THE   PLACE 

MABELIA  and  her  mother  were  sitting  together,  busy 
with  their  needlework,  in  the  garden  of  Wyse  Hall. 
The  air  was  hot  and  still,  but  not  without  freshness.  A 
smooth  expanse  of  lawn  stretched  in  front  of  them, 
bounded  by  the  western  front  of  the  beautiful  ancient 
house,  which  for  centuries  had  enshrined  the  home  life 
of  its  owners,  and  pointed  their  appreciation  of  its 
quieter  pleasures.  The  bees  were  droning  among  the 
flowers,  and  provided  the  only  sound  that  broke  the 
brooding  peace  of  the  summer  morning. 

Mrs.  Churton's  hair  was  white,  but  she  was  still  active 
and  erect,  and  decisive  in  speech  and  manner.  And 
Mabilia  looked  actually  younger  than  when  she  and 
Hugh  had  talked  together  on  that  summer  night  five 
years  before.  There  were  no  signs  of  the  invalid  about 
her  now,  and  on  the  grass  a  little  way  from  where  they 
were  sitting  was  a  child's  wooden  cart,  and  near  it  a 
child's  painted  horse.  Motherhood  had  come  to  her, 
and  brought  happiness  with  it.  She  no  longer  had 
time,  or  inclination,  to  hug  ailments,  and  they  had  de- 
parted from  her. 

Mrs.  Churton,  who  had  been  accustomed  throughout 
life  to  announce  herself  as  unable  to  understand,  or 
even  to  approve  of,  the  prevailing  fashion  of  making 

310 


THE    TIME    AND    THE    PLACE     311 

a  fuss  about  very  young  children,  had  fallen  a  victim 
to  the  fascinations  of  her  grandson,  but  had  never  yet 
been  brought  to  acknowledge  that  there  was  any  dis- 
crepancy between  her  present  and  her  former  atti- 
tude. She  was  defending  herself  vigorously  this 
morning  against  the  charge  pressed  with  raillery  by 
Mabilia  of  being  just  like  any  other  doting  grand- 
mother. 

"  It  is  not  in  the  least  like  that,"  she  was  saying 
vigorously.  "  Little  Richard  is  a  remarkable  child. 
I  should  say  the  same  if  he  belonged  to  anybody  else 
but  you.  If  he  were  like  the  ordinary  run  of  children 
I  should  put  up  with  him  because  he  was  yours,  and  do 
what  I  conceived  to  be  my  duty  towards  him,  and  there 
it  would  end.  What  is  the  time,  Mabilia?  I  have  not 
got  my  watch  on." 

Mabilia  laughed.  "  It  is  not  time  to  wake  him  yet," 
she  said.  "  I  wish  you  had  spoilt  me  a  little  when  I  was 
a  child,  mother,  as  you  spoil  Richard.  It  wouldn't  have 
done  me  any  harm." 

"  To  say  that  I  spoil  Richard  is  simply  untrue,"  said 
Mrs.  Churton.  "  I  love  the  child ;  that  is  only  natural 
in  my  position  towards  him.  And  no  child  is  the  worse 
by  being  surrounded  by  love,  if  it  is  wisely  exercised. 
It  was  in  your  case,  but  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
nonsense  in  you  from  the  first,  which  I  did  my  best  to 
eradicate.  The  result  was  that  you  grew  up  a  com- 
panion to  me,  instead  of  a  nuisance,  as  many  girls  of 
the  modern  day  are  to  their  mothers.  Some  of  the  non- 
sense returned  after  you  were  married,  but  as  you  seem 


312  MANY   JUNES 

to  have  got  rid  of  it  now,  I  will  say  no  more  about 
that,  except  that  my  bringing  up  was  justified." 

Mabilia  laughed  again.  "  It's  all  rather  different, 
isn't  it  ?  "  she  said.  "  Life  is  worth  living  now." 

"  Life  is  always  worth  living,"  said  Mrs.  Churton. 
"  It  has  always,  certainly,  been  worth  living  for  you, 
with  all  you  have  had  at  your  command,  and  the  pity 
of  it  is  that  you  wasted  so  many  years  of  it  in  thinking 
yourself  hardly  used,  when  you  were  so  much  more 
fortunate  than  most.  It  is  true  that  Hugh  has  changed 
completely  since  the  child  was  born,  and  is  now  much 
easier  to  live  with  than  he  was.  But  he  was  never  really 
so  difficult  as  you  made  out,  and  even  if  he  had  been, 
you  had  all  the  rest,  and  as  far  as  I  know  he  never  put 
any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  your  enjoying  it." 

"  No,  he  didn't,"  said  Mabilia,  speaking  more  seri- 
ously. "  I  had  everything  that  I  should  have  thought  I 
could  possibly  want,  and  after  a  time  I  found  that  I 
didn't  care  for  any  of  it.  It  was  a  curious  discovery  for 
a  woman  brought  up  as  I  had  been." 

"  That  is  meant  for  a  reflection  upon  me,  I  suppose. 
You're  so  much  higher  in  the  world  than  your  mother 
that  you  can  forget  how  much  she  had  to  do  with  pre- 
paring you  for  the  place  that  has  fortunately  come  to 
you.  However,  we  needn't  spar  about  that.  The  whole 
change  in  you  has  been  brought  about  by  your  having 
a  child.  It  is  so  with  many  women.  Men  too!  Look 
how  it  has  changed  Hugh !  He  has  even  got  rid  of  some 
of  his  solemnity.  He  has  got  rid  of  all  his  disagree- 
ableness.  How  intensely  disagreeable  he  was  at  the  time 


THE    TIME    AND    THE    PLACE     313 

of  your  marriage !  With  all  this  just  come  to  him,  and 
married  to  the  woman  he  had  chosen  out  of  all  others, 
one  would  have  said  that  he  was  a  bitterly  disappointed 
man,, for  whom  life  held  nothing  at  all.  I  have  often 
thought  it  over  since,  and  that  is  just  how  it  has  ap- 
peared to  me." 

"That's  just  what  he  was,  poor  Hugh!  I  didn't 
know  much  about  him  then,  or  for  long  afterwards.  I 
had  thought  a  great  deal  about  what  I  wanted  for 
myself,  and  very  little  about  what  I  could  give  him." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  would  have  given  him  a  child, 
which  was  the  chief  thing  he  wanted,  if  you  could.  But 
he  couldn't  know  that  you  would  not  have  one  for  so 
many  years  when  he  married  you.  I've  never  understood 
his  attitude  at  that  time.  You're  so  much  more  in  his 
confidence  than  you  used  to  be,  Mabilia.  Haven't  you 
ever  asked  him  what  the  trouble  was  then?  Was  it  just 
that  he  had  bound  himself  to  marry  you  when  he  was 
poor,  and  afterwards  thought  he  might  have  done  so 
much  better  for  himself,  with  all  he  had  to  offer?  " 

Mabilia  smiled.  "  You  don't  put  a  very  high  value 
upon  what  you  had  made  of  me,  after  all,"  she  said. 
"  I  don't  believe  you've  ever  thought,  mother,  that  love 
is  the  chief  thing  in  marriage,  and  that  nothing  else 
counts  much  beside  it." 

"  Oh,  love !  "  said  Mrs.  Churton.  "  I  don't  picture 
you  as  exactly  pining  for  love  when  Hugh  proposed  to 
you.  You  thought  it  was  just  good  enough  then,  and 
by  a  miracle  of  luck  it  became  much  more  than  good 
enough  later.  I  like  to  face  such  questions  as  this  di- 


314  MANY  JUNES 

rectly.  If  Hugh  had  ever  thought  of  himself  as  in  love 
with  you,  he  had  most  certainly  got  rid  of  the  idea  by 
the  time  you  were  married,  as  he  showed  plainly  enough. 
Yours  was  not  a  love  match,  Mabilia,  on  either  side ;  but 
though  one  was  very  doubtful  about  it  for  a  long  time, 
it  has  turned  out  well  in  the  end,  as  so  many  marriages 
do  that  don't  begin  with  roses  and  raptures.  You've 
become  good  friends,  and  Hugh  has  turned  into  an  ex- 
tremely kind  and  thoughtful  husband ;  but  all  the  same 
it's  a  little  late  in  the  day  to  begin  talking  about  love." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  said  Mabilia,  with  a  sigh.  "  And 
yet,  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  don't  love 
Hugh,  though  I'm  quite  sure  that  I  didn't  when  I  mar- 
ried him,  or  for  many  years  afterwards.  He  is  very 
kind  to  me;  he  is  a  man  that  everybody  must  respect, 
and  perhaps  admire.  I  admire  and  respect  him,  at  any 
rate ;  and  he  is  the  father  of  my  child  whom  we  both  do 
love.  What  I  do  know  is  that  I  could  have  loved  him  at 
the  beginning." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  there  was  to  prevent  you. 
From  what  you  say,  I  should  think  that  you  may  have 
come  to  love  him  in  some  sort  of  fashion ;  and  probably 
he  could  make  you  love  him  as  much  as  most  wives  love 
their  husbands  at  your  age,  if  he  wanted  it.  The  trouble 
is  that  very  few  men  do,  when  they  get  past  the  early 
stages,  and  Hugh  never  even  went  through  them.  What 
you  can  say  is  that  he  has  accepted  his  lot,  and  it  is 
quite  likely  that  he  has  come  to  feel  some  sort  of  affec- 
tion for  you.  If  he  behaves  well  towards  you,  it  is  just 
as  true  that  you  behave  well  towards  him.  I  have  ob- 


THE    TIME    AND    THE    PLACE     315 

served  it  with  pleasure,  for  you  didn't  always.  You 
have  both  something  substantial  to  go  upon,  but  if  you 
were  to  press  me  from  now  till  doomsday  I  shouldn't 
call  it  love." 

"  I  don't  want  to  press  you.  And  yet  it  is  love,  after 
all.  Perhaps  not  for  each  other.  We  made  a  false 
start,  and  we  can't  go  back  to  the  beginning.  But  we 
both  love  our  child.  He's  the  chief  thing  in  the  lives  of 
each  of  us.  Otherwise  it  would  just  be  accepting  the 
second  best,  and  making  the  most  of  it  as  long  as  we 
lived,  and  not  caring  much  when  the  time  came  to 
leave  it." 

"  I  shouldn't  call  it  the  second  best  myself ;  but  it's 
true  that  both  of  you  did  your  utmost  to  make  it  so.  I 
don't  take  any  exception,  though,  to  your  finding  it  all 
made  worth  while  by  the  child.  It  would  have  been  dis- 
mal enough  to  have  grown  old  here,  with  nobody  to 
come  after  you  that  you  cared  anything  about." 

"  There's  a  great  de.al  in  that,  mother — more  than 
you  mean  by  it,  I  think.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  neither 
Hugh  nor  I  matter  very  much  now,  for  ourselves. 
We've  had  the  greater  part  of  our  lives,  and  we've  made 
little  of  them — poor  Hugh  especially.  And  it  hasn't 
been  his  fault,  as  perhaps  it  has  been  mine.  It's  as  if 
he  had  been  the  sport  of  fate  all  along.  He  has  had 
great  things  given  him,  but  always  they  seem  to  have 
come  at  the  wrong  time,  and  he  has  lost  them  one  after 
the  other ;  or  if  he  has  kept  them  they  have  been  of  no 
value  to  him.  But  now  they  are  of  value,  because  of  his 
little  son.  But  they're  nothing  beside  Richard  himself. 


316  MANY  JUNES 

It  is  he  that  has  brought  Hugh  to  anchor  at  last.     Oh, 
if  only  he's  spared  to  us !     If  Hugh  were  to  lose  him, 

as  he  has  lost  everybody  else  he  has  loved !  " 

"  That's  a  foolish  way  of  talking,  Mabilia,"  said 
Mrs.  Churton  authoritatively.  "  Where  is  your  reli- 
gion? God  has  given  you  a  great  gift.  Be  thankful 
to  Him  for  it  and  make  the  most  of  it.  We  all  have 
our  lives  to  live,  and  must  expect  sorrow  as  well  as  joy 
in  them.  There's  no  such  thing  as  a  man  being  the 
sport  of  fate." 


THE  END 


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